


Two Hands Verse

by neaf



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neaf/pseuds/neaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris and Darren have it all, but more than that they have each other. Or, what happens when you get to spend your life with your best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Selective Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2011, during the filming of Season 2.

It’s warm on set, warmer than it should be, but that could easily just be the heat of Darren under him. They’re sliding against each other, slowly, probably more than they should be - but if it were visible past the blanket coiled around them, the director would’ve said something by now.   
  
Chris is breathing, but he doesn’t know how, he’s had Darren in his mouth longer than his coffee that day. He’s kissed Darren so many times at this point, there’s no nerves anymore. But this is new. This is Darren under him, feeling his breath and his body heat, wondering where to put his hands, how to move. This is playing intimate with the sweetest guy he’s ever met, and something in his hips is curling low and hot and starting to worry him a little. Or a lot.  
  
Chris can feel Darren’s hand on the small of his back, fingers tucked into his jeans on one side. They kiss harder, and without warning Chris can feel himself pushing down with his hips, his back curving involuntarily. A brief sharp panic shoots through him. _Well that was inappropriate, jesus christ_ , he thinks. He barely has time to wonder if Darren is freaking out at the pressure and the push when he feels a hand cup his ass for leverage, feels the kiss get rougher and more desperate.  
  
There’s the door. Cory’s voice. Chris vaguely recollects that there’s something he’s supposed to be doing. _Shit. Fuck. Shit._  
  
Cory’s delivered his line, and is staring at them with the utterly blank Finn face he does so ridiculously well, jaw on the floor.   
  
The cameras are still rolling, and against the scream of his body telling him to keep going, keep doing _this_ , he manages to pull away from the kiss and land his horror-struck gaze on Cory in unison with Darren’s. _Scene saved, thank god._  
  
“Ohmygod, ohmygod,” Chris says on autopilot, amazed he remembered the words. The rest comes just as easily, and on cue he's diving his face down under the blanket as Darren delivers his line. All the shifting together, Darren's shirt has ridden up around his armpits, and Chris presses his cheek to the warmth of Darren's ribs. Chris can taste skin against his lips, salt and muscle and bone. He feels Darren tremble, just a little, against his mouth. Chris doesn’t know how he manages to push down the violent urge to drag his teeth across the hipbone he can see jutting out of Darren’s pants.  
  
“I… uh…” Cory’s voice stammers from across the room.  
  
It’s his line, Chris has just realised. He’s supposed to shout out, mortified, _oh my god, Finn, out, out, out!_ but his voice has gone. After a moment of silence where there certainly wasn’t meant to be silence, he can feel the laughter rising in the body below him, a tremble, a stifled laugh that Darren somehow forced down, but that’s all it takes.   
  
Chris’s giggles are uncontrollable, but he keeps them as quiet as he can manage. The sight of the shaking blanket was all it took for Cory, he’s doubled-over, and that sets Darren off.  
  
“I am _so_. sorry. you guys!” Chris calls out guiltily over the giggles. He feels Darren’s hand shift from his jeans, and an arm drape across his back as they both shake with laughter.   
  
As the trembling subsides, he chances a peek up at Darren, who throws him a wink. There’s that grin, that insane grin that just about radiates, and Darren can’t wipe it off his face. Chris pokes his head out from under the edge of the blanket, trying to avoid the director's glares as they reset for another shot. Cory is shaking his head, still laughing, as he disappears back out the door.  
  
Darren takes one look at Chris and starts laughing again, softer this time. “Dude, you have epic bedhair.”  
  
“I do?” Chris looks up at the spikes of wayward brown hair tipping forward at crazy angles.   
  
“It’s awesome,” Darren looks him over, still grinning. “Looks like Kurt had his world quite thoroughly rocked.”  
  
“Well, you know what they say, if it looks like a duck…” Chris shrugs, and the slightly dirty smirk he gets in return from Darren is all he reward he needs.  
  
The gate snaps, and Chris feels Darren’s arm move across him again, finding a strong grip on his hip. Quietly, so only Chris can hear, he says, “better get quacking.”  
  
Chris doesn't have a chance to let the laugh out before he feels Darren’s mouth on his, and the scene begins again.   
  
Chris absently wonders, this time, which line he should remember to forget.


	2. Accidental Acoustics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured in this chapter is _Two Hands_ by the Ting Tings.

There’s sun beaming down through the high windows, but it’s no warmer in the light than the shadows of the old hall. Chris wonders how the set designers found the place, way out here. It’s so ornate, so fragile and old, but beautiful in that way that only truly old things can be.  
  
He shivers, involuntarily, as a chilly gust washes over him from the hallway. The rattle and click of tripods and shoes on the tile down the corridor sounds miles away. He thinks he can hear Lea, somewhere in the distance, laughing. They’re setting up for her coverage before they switch to Cory.  
  
Neck arched, Chris stares up at the huge dome ceiling of the atrium, his gaze lost in the grey light for a moment. He can feel himself shivering – even the black-and-silver pinned designer jacket he’s wearing is doing little good. Kurt’s wardrobe was never so much about comfort as character.  
  
The cold is keeping him tense, coiled-up, ribs achingly tight despite the exhaustion settling into his bones. It’s been a long, long week.  
  
He almost jumps when he feels the two arms come around him, wrapping around his ribcage. There’s a chin on his shoulder, and warm breath on his neck, and it feels incredibly good in contrast to the intermittent wash of cool air.  
  
“You,” Darren’s voice says from the step behind him, “are _freezing_.”  
  
“Mmhmm,” Chris sighs, and feels his eyes drift closed as the heat from Darren’s chest spreads across his back. He settles his arms on top of Darren’s, and without hesitation a hand rubs his sleeve rapidly, trying to generate some kind of warmth.  
  
“It’s like hugging a snowman,” Darren says.  
  
Chris’s mouth curves up at the edges, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Smells like carrots.”  
  
He can feel Darren’s confused smile against his neck. “What?”  
  
“It’s an old joke. What did one snowman say to the other snowman?”  
  
Darren is laughing into his collar, and the heat is running down him now in blissful waves. Chris can feel the icy coil in his chest releasing, his ribs resting, and suddenly he feels boneless and safe. His entire body slumps, his weight falling into the man behind him as he exhales shakily. He has no idea how Darren is keeping him upright – he’s heavier than he looks. But, he supposes, after eighteen months and all they’ve done together, Darren knows that well enough.  
  
Chris tips his head back, resting it on Darren’s shoulder, and glances up at the atrium again. “I love this place,” he says, a little sadly, “I hope we get to do a song here.”  
  
“It’s beautiful,” Darren agrees, glancing up at the curved ceiling. “The acoustics would be amazing.”  
  
Chris watches him as he talks, the shift of his jaw, stubble starting to show already. Absently, Chris reaches up a hand and tucks a wayward curl behind Darren’s ear. He gets a broad, affectionate smile in return.  
  
With a contented sigh, Chris settles, closing his eyes. They hadn’t been called for their coverage, yet. They had time.  
  
“You get _any_ sleep last night?” Darren asks concernedly, resting his cheek on Chris’s brow.  
  
Chris shakes his head minutely, but enough for Darren to feel it. They’d flown back out in the dark of the morning, little time for sleep after recording through the day before. It was the job, and the job was amazing, but it was days like today that make him wonder how long he can keep it up.  
  
They stand there in the quiet calm of the morning, breathing and sharing heat. It is reprieve, a moment aside. No discomfort, no need to fill the void with banal chit-chat. They’d fallen into the pattern a long time ago, that strange otherworldly comfort where they could just stay there, together, at peace in the deep.  
  
Noise echoes from the corridor, and Chris shifts at the sound. He feels Darren’s grip loosen slightly, but strokes the back of a hand with his thumb to let him know not to let go. Not just yet.  
  
Darren lifts his head, but holds tight.  
  
After a moment of quiet, after he is certain nobody is coming to get them, Chris smiles to himself. “Two hands,” he sings very softly, just to the two of them, “I want to play the piano with two hands.”  
  
Darren’s face lights up in a gentle, knowing smile.  
  
“Should’ve learned, two hands too many, it’s the way of the world,” Chris continues.  
  
He feels Darren’s chest move against him as they sing together quietly, and the sound of the song rises around them soft but clear. They begin to sway just slightly at the chorus, and Darren’s hand taps on Chris’s sleeve to the beat.  
  
He realises, then, that this was everything he needed. It isn't just the private joke of the lyrics, but to have _this_. To breathe in the music and share it with someone who feels exactly the same way. To hold on to someone, or be held on to.  
  
Chris feels Darren’s chest rise and fall slowly behind him, and knows without looking the other man has closed his eyes, just content to breathe and hold on.  
  
In retrospect, Chris decides, he could probably keep this up forever.


	3. Uncommon Courtesy

When Chris gets back to his chair, he snatches up his bottle of water and swings gracefully down, fist clutching tight to a fresh new script. The pages flap open on his lap, and he flicks through quickly, browsing over the scenes and reading every third or fourth line.  
  
He finds the first of his scenes, and lets a smile creep up at the corner of his mouth. He loves spending time with the cast, but the last few episodes it feels like Kurt’s fading into the sea of them, throwing out occasional one-liners and generally playing backup.   
  
But next episode, there it is in capital letters. KURT AND BLAINE. Just the two of them. It’s been over a month since they’ve had a scene to themselves, and more than a few lines scattered in each episode.  
  
As he scans over the dialogue and stage directions, his grip loosens on his water bottle, and it falls to the cement with a flat THUMP and rolls away.  
  
Eyes wide, he finishes reading the scene, and then folds the script closed very carefully. He swallows hard.   
  
Chris has no idea how long he's been staring off into space when Darren practically bounces up and flops audibly into the chair beside him. Chris blinks rapidly at the noise, and lets out a breathy laugh. He loves the man, he really does, but sometimes Darren has all the subtlety of a gazelle on red bull.  
  
"So you've read the script?" Darren asks, feigning casual.  
  
Chris shoots him a wry look. "Indeed I have."  
  
"I have these two questions," Darren says, leaning in and using both hands for emphasis as he talks. "But here's the thing, the first one I'm kinda asking as a best-friend-needing-your-advice type question. Personal stuff."  
  
"And the second?"  
  
"Professional co-star and screen boyfriend type question." Darren finishes.  
  
Chris shifts to get comfortable in his seat and crosses his legs, chin on his hand. "Fire away."  
  
"Okay," Darren shifts a little, and Chris can tell he's gearing up for whatever it is he's about to ask. _Oh, this is going to be hilarious,_ Chris thinks.  
  
"So, advice wise," Darren begins, "is it okay to ask your co-star and onscreen boyfriend if he'd rather you wax your chest before a certain impending scene, as a professional courtesy, for the sake of his general comfort and avoiding potentially painful disasters?"  
  
Chris is trying so hard not to laugh himself into a fit, he presses his lips together tightly and covers his mouth with his hand. Darren's shoulders slump, exasperated, but he doesn't lose his smile. "Don't laugh, man!"  
  
"I'm not, I'm not," Chris composes himself to say. "I would say… that it's extremely thoughtful to consider the comfort of your co-star, who I'm sure is both ridiculously attractive and very approachable."   
  
"Oh, he is," Darren says with mock gravity, nodding along.  
  
"I would also like to point out, purely as your best friend-who-is-giving-you-advice-type-per

son – eloquently put, by the way – that the fact that your first thought after finding out you're going to be filming a sex scene next week was 'should I wax my chest?' is something I'm not going to let you forget for awhile. Just so you know."  
  
Darren is laughing, a blush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. “Of course.”  
  
"It's my duty as the aforementioned best friend type person." Chris informs him, reaching over and snatching Darren’s water bottle from the ground.  
  
"Okay, okay," Darren waves a hand. "Second question."  
  
"I wonder what that might be?" Chris says sarcastically as he takes a sip.  
  
"Wax or no?" Darren asks seriously.  
  
Chris tips his head to the side, weighing up the pros and cons. "How much are we talking?"  
  
Darren squints a little. "Decent trail. Some across the top, I guess."  
  
"If you can shave it into shapes then we're in Austin Powers territory," Chris jokes, and watches as Darren's face scrunches up in amusement. After a beat, Chris waves a hand at him. "Alright, show me."  
  
Darren's brow shoots up. "Huh?"  
  
"Show. Me." Chris says, nodding at Darren's shirt. "You want a serious answer, I need to know what I'm dealing with here."  
  
With an embarrassed eye-roll, Darren pushes himself out of the chair and turns to face Chris, hooking the hem of his grey longsleeve shirt and lifting it up to his neck in one fluid movement.  
  
Chris sits back and leans on an arm, a single eyebrow quirked as he watches. He's going to have fun with this, he decides, confident in the knowledge that Darren would probably do the exact same thing if their situations were reversed.  
  
"Well?" Darren asks, and Chris makes a show of deliberating.   
  
Darren tries to glare, but his smile is still showing. "I feel like a flasher here, dude."   
  
"Hey there, porn stars!" Heather's voice rings out as she swings past, and then stops dead. After a quick glance between them, she drops into Darren's chair and copies Chris's expression.  
  
Darren blushes deeply, looking up at the sky and trying not to laugh. "Seriously?"  
  
"Chris?" Heather asks without dropping her facade.  
  
"Why yes, Heather?" Chris plays the same game.  
  
"I hate you just a little bit right now."  
  
"You and half the internet," Chris concedes.  
  
Darren bounces his knees just a little, squirming under all the attention. "Can we make a decision here, please?"  
  
Heather turns to Chris. "What are we deciding?"  
  
"Wax or no wax," Chris informs her, still staring at Darren's exposed chest.  
  
"Oh, jesus, wax," Heather insists. "Definitely wax."  
  
Darren's brow furrows. "Come on, it's not _that_ bad."  
  
"No, it's not the amount, it's any. You try looking sexy with chest hair stuck in your teeth," Heather insists. "It's happened to me."  
  
Both men stare at her for a moment.  
  
"Twice."  
  
Chris's eyebrows shoot up. "Wax it is."  
  
Nodding a little, Darren lowers his shirt.  
  
Heather straightens in her seat, lightning quick, with excitement. "Oh please, _please_ let me and Naya do it!" she begs.  
  
Darren opens his mouth to speak, his eyes suddenly unsure. "I don't know," he says carefully after a moment. "I was just gonna get the makeup team to-"  
  
"And what, deprive me of the free show? I don't think so." Chris kicks at him playfully with his Converse.  
  
Darren swats a hand down absently to try and catch Chris's foot. "Yeah, yeah."  
  
"So we can?" Heather flaps her hands at Darren, perching on the edge of the seat.   
  
Darren heaves an amused, disbelieving breath and rubs at his eyes. "Alright. Okay."  
  
"Yeeee!" Heather squeals and leaps up from the seat, clapping her hands together. "I'm gonna go tell Naya!" she shouts as she tears away down the path.  
  
Darren lets his body slump exaggeratedly in Chris’s direction, and decides that the other man is looking entirely too amused.   
  
He scrunches one eye and rubs the back of his neck. “I did this to myself, didn't I?"  
  
Chris holds up his fingers in a near-closed pinch. "Little bit," he mouths.  
  
Darren chuckles to himself as Chris gathers his bag and gets up out of his seat. They fall in step immediately, side by side.   
  
“If it helps at all,” Chris says, nudging Darren with his shoulder. “While the girls are causing you absurd amounts of pain and laughing at your anguished face, just think of how phenomenally grateful I’ll be, not having to stop to floss.”  
  
Darren chuckles noiselessly beside him, and takes his hand as they wander down the cement path to the soundstage.  
  
It takes more than a minute for Chris to realise they’re holding hands, Darren hasn’t so much as looked at him to check for a reaction.   
  
The comfort, the ease of it, washes over him, and Chris decides that as far as the job goes, he could do a lot worse than spending every day with his best friend.


	4. Gunshot Harmony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured in this chapter is _Colorblind_ by Counting Crows.

_I am ready._  
  
The song starts over, as it has several times now, and the undertow of the piano pulls them back down. The dialogue is done, the lead up to this. The _are you sure?_ and the sound of Chris’s voice in reply, just a little broken.   
  
They were given a song to move to, to feel in this moment, the same song that would be used for the scene when it aired, or so they were told. The set has been cleared. Darren can’t feel the bed beneath him for the music.   
  
His breath catches in his throat as Chris presses his mouth to skin, lips parted just enough. There was a hand on his ribs, Darren can feel it. Long fingers pressing down, and a thumb drawing lines across each bone in turn. He tries to breathe.  
  
Chris’s hands had him, they owned him. There is a tentative, almost hazy look in Chris’s eyes, and that was the character. That was Kurt. But Chris’s hands betray him.  
  
Darren moves, fluidly, with the wave of the music, sitting up and gathering Chris’s shirt. Chris arches perfectly into the motion, the shirt peeling up and over his head. Darren feels hands cup his face even before he’s cast the shirt away, and Chris’s mouth is on his, slow and rolling. He can feel the weight of him, pressing down on his lap, his legs cast either side. Darren pushes his hands up the smooth skin of Chris’s back, pulling him in. He wonders absently if it looked as desperate as it felt.  
  
 _I am ready._  
  
He cradles Chris as they roll over together, lowering him down as gently as he can without losing their rhythm. The blanket comes with them, a well-practiced motion to cover them the right way for the camera. Darren doesn’t feel it draped across his lower back, all he can feel is the heat of Chris below him.  
  
He kisses him again, trying not to push down too hard, trying not to lose himself. He breaks the kiss on cue, resting his forehead against Chris’s and trying to find air. The camera is close, he has some general peripheral sense of it, but it doesn’t matter right now. He looks down, light-headed, and lets Blaine rise up to the surface again. The imploring, questioning look. _Tell me that you’re ready for this,_ it says.  
  
And Kurt’s reply is there, bright in Chris’s eyes. The tiny, reassuring smile. That pleading look that makes Darren’s hips ache. Darren strokes Chris’s face with his thumb, and kisses him very softly before his hand trails down Chris’s chest and under the blanket.   
  
They’d agreed on the motion. The placement. Darren’s hand rests on Chris’s hip, his arm curled between their bodies. He pushes down on the hipbone he can feel, and they rock gently, only so slightly.   
  
_I am ready._  
  
Darren traces the line of Chris’s jaw with his mouth, and they move together to the sound and the sensation. His arm shifts between them, and he pushes down harder on Chris’s hip, eliciting a gasp that makes his own body jerk involuntarily. His mouth finds Chris’s throat as his head tips back, sucking gently on the pulse he feels there.  
  
Chris shudders, and Darren looks up searchingly as their motion grows a little longer with each push. The look on Chris’s face is reaching inside him, and something in his chest tightens. Darren stares up at Chris’s profile, head tipped back and massive blue eyes wide, mouth open in the perfect picture of exactly what Kurt is experiencing. Darren watches him, unrelentingly, as they rock, and he pushes a little harder. Chris draws another sharp breath and shudders, his eyes fluttering closed.   
  
Darren can’t look away, and when Chris’s eyes open they find his immediately. Darren rests his head against Chris, and he feels Chris’s warm, shaky breath on his lips. He narrows his eyes a little, and gives one more rough push, stroking his thumb hard across the hipbone under him. Like a gunshot, Chris’s head tips back violently, and he draws in air so fast he lets out a tiny, strangled noise.   
  
Darren can’t help the curve at the corner of his mouth, the thrill at the look in Chris’s eyes as he mimics the climax underneath him. He feels Chris’s body shake, and he strokes his hip again involuntarily. Chris’s eyes clamp shut again as he shudders out a breath, and both his hands come up to cradle Darren’s face.   
  
Darren smiles, softly, adoringly, as he knows Blaine would.  
  
Chris lets out a breathy laugh, and stares at him for a moment, pupils still blown wide. Darren lowers himself gently, and traces Chris’s mouth with his own. It’s gentle, barely a kiss, but it’s everything in that moment. He licks the taste of Chris from his bottom lip.  
  
There’s a moment, a dull beat where the music stops. They can hear the call to cut the scene, but Darren still hasn’t looked away. Chris casts a quick glance over to the director, who rattles on about setting up for another take. Chris nods, and Darren can feel those hands again, brushing across his skin.   
  
Chris smiles up at him, and after a moment Darren realises he should move. They need to reset. Get Chris’s shirt.   
  
They roll back, and Chris is handed the shirt again. He pulls it over his head smoothly, and pushes up the sleeves.   
  
The director shouts for quiet, but there’s little point, there’s barely anyone else there. The scene begins over, and Darren can feel those fingers, that aching handprint across his ribs. The music begins again.  
  
 _I am ready._


	5. Heartsick and Home

When Chris pours himself through his front door it's past 9pm, and the glare of his living room light makes him flinch. His face hurts, still feels raw from crying take after take throughout the evening, and he absently rubs at the bridge of his nose to try and deter the oncoming headache.  
  
He dumps his bag gracelessly by the couch, flicks on the stereo, and wanders to the kitchen as the first few bars of _Higher Devotion_ roll under the cool air. After a moment of blinking at the mostly empty shelves in his fridge, he finally settles for a Diet Coke, letting the door swing and thump shut. The can opens with a sputter-crunch, and he takes his first drink in a gulp, enjoying the magnificent ice burn down his throat.  
  
His fridge door is littered with ticket stubs and photographs, Amber and Lea on the last tour, Cory pulling a funny face over a half-eaten sandwich, Dianna and Naya posing in costumes. Faces and words and memories. His eyes pass a post-it in Heather's handwriting, and he chuckles under his breath, remembering when he got it.  
  
It was the day he and Darren had to film the bed scene, the scene they took a thousand takes of on a closed set. The show had used less than thirty seconds of footage from that day, but then, Chris was surprised they got anything through at all.  
  
Heather had left them a present before filming that morning.   
  
_“What is that?” Darren asked, poking Chris in the ribs and pointing.  
  
“What?”  
  
Darren nodded to Chris’s chair and the bright red and blue metal tube sitting on it, wrapped in a big bow. Chris narrowed his eyes, striding over to investigate. “Oh, you’re kidding.”   
  
“What is it?” Darren wandered up behind him.   
  
Chris waved the can of whipped cream at him, and the red and gold bow attached to the top wiggled from the flourish.  
  
Darren let out a breathy laugh, rolling his eyes.  
  
“The note says,” Chris held up the can to read the yellow post-it. “D & C, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, love Heather.”  
  
Darren closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, still grinning.  
  
“PS, word of advice,” he continued reading. “Deodorant: smells nice, tastes very bad.” He looked over at Darren. “I think that was meant for you.”  
  
“Got it,” Darren nodded._  
  
A thump on his front door stirs Chris from the reverie. He blinks, stunned for a moment, before sipping at his coke again and wandering slowly back out to the living room.   
  
There it is again, three flat thumps on the door. He slides up to it, wishing for the thousandth time that he had some kind of peephole, and trying to imagine who on earth would be coming by his house this late. "Who is it?"  
  
"Hey, man, it's me," a voice replies hesitantly. It's deep, and slightly off, but unmistakably Darren.  
  
Chris's brow shoots up in surprise, and he hesitates halfway to the handle as Darren starts talking a million miles an hour through the door about how he's sorry, and it's weird, and he knows that. He's still talking rapidly and gesticulating when Chris swings the door open.  
  
"…and I know it's probably, like, _wildly_ inappropriate to just come by your house, so you can just tell me to go if you-"  
  
"Darren."  
  
"-want to, I mean, I would, you know, if some random guy just showed up-"  
  
"Darren."  
  
"-at my door and was like, oh I'm in a _glass case_ of _emotion_ and I don't know what's going on-"  
  
"DARREN."   
  
Darren stops dead at the raised tone of Chris's voice, big hazel eyes wide and stunned behind his glasses.  
  
Chris props the door wider, tipping his head towards the living room in invitation.   
  
Sheepishly, and with both arms wrapped around his chest to ward off the cold, Darren shuffles into the room behind Chris and lets the door swing closed. "I'm _so_ sorry, man, I'm -"  
  
"Quit it with the apologising," Chris holds up a finger with his free hand. "What's going on?"  
  
Darren breathes deep, clearly nervous, and Chris can't help but smile fondly at him. There's a mess of dark curls poking out from under his beanie, brushing the top line of his glasses, and his clothes look like he's dragged them on in the dark. The combination is a mess of khaki and denim and navy blue, and Chris tries not to chuckle at just how ridiculously _Darren_ it all is, right down to the filthy, untied black and white converse on his feet.  
  
"It's weird, man," Darren starts, perching on the arm of the couch, and for all that he looks like himself, he just doesn't sound like Darren. The confident and smooth line to his voice is gone, and Chris wonders if he's ever let anybody see him like this before. Hear him like this.   
  
"I just – I don't know. I got home, and I just – I guess. I didn't want to stay there? I wanted to come out and see you, make sure…" he trails off.  
  
Chris's brow rises again, expectantly, as he sips from his drink. "Make sure?"  
  
Darren looks at him and flinches. "I don't know," he admits as he scratches at his beanie, and Chris can feel the tension coming off him in waves.  
  
"I guess it was just a rough day," Darren finishes helplessly, lowering his eyes to the carpet.  
  
Chris nods slowly, putting his can down on the lamp table. "Was it the scene?"  
  
Darren nods, but doesn't lift his eyes. "Yeah, I guess. I mean. I know it's only a few weeks? But it just. I don't know."  
  
There's a moment of silence as the player changes tracks, and Chris dips his head to the side, studying Darren's face in sympathy. There it is, that little glint behind his eyes. That's what this is all about. Chris feels a rush of warmth in his chest, and tries to fight a smile.  
  
They filmed the breakup today. Darren was his usual warm and electric self between takes, while Chris had been quiet, feeling a little too much like Kurt through most of it. He had to feel everything Kurt Hummel was feeling, that shattering hole being torn in his chest. But his body had reacted _then_ – it had to, through tears and the words he had to get out.   
  
Darren's body, Darren's heart, is reacting _now_.  
  
"Jeez, man, I am such a hot fucking mess," Darren laughs as he rubs his face, trying to diffuse the tension. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come out here and messed with your night. I'll go. I just – wanted to see you.”  
  
"Hey," Chris says softly as Darren makes motions to leave.  
  
Darren looks over at him, eyes bright despite the attempts he's making to hide them. He's standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, halfway between the couch and the door, and Chris can't wipe the adoring look off his own face. He takes a few steps in, resting his chin on Darren's shoulder and circling his arms around the other man's waist as he presses their bodies together. "It's alright, you know," he says very softly, "to feel what he feels, even when you're not him."  
  
After a moment, he can feel Darren's chest slump, and two long, warm arms wrap around him. Darren is pushing against him and drawing him close at the same time in the tightest, most needing hug Chris has ever felt. There's something terribly sad and altogether grateful about it, something broken and confused. Chris sighs softly, and presses a kiss to the side of Darren's head. "Just two weeks," he says gently, rubbing the small of Darren’s back.  
  
Darren nods messily into his neck, and Chris can feel the tears against his skin.  
  
If it were anybody else, Chris thinks, this would be the strangest thing that’s ever happened to him. But Darren is different. Darren feels joy with every cell in his body, gives love with every crazy flailing gesture, with every note he sings. The idea that a heart like that could be broken in any way stings at Chris’s eyes, and he squeezes Darren’s waist protectively, unwilling to let go just yet.  
  
“It’s ridiculous,” Darren says, snuffling. “It’s going back to normal, soon. It’s just temporary.”  
  
Chris presses his lips together in a tight line, remembering the discussion they had with Ryan about the breakup and reunion scenes. He was fairly sure his heart had ended up in his shoes at some point when he realized how the fans would react.  
  
“It is,” Chris agrees. “I think it’s just that it’s broken _now_. Even if we know it’s going to be okay in the end, it’s still broken _now_. That’s why it hurts.”  
  
Darren nods again, pushing his foggy glasses back up his nose over Chris’s shoulder.  
  
“But I’m still here,” Chris says softly as he pulls back. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
Darren smiles at him, warm and bright and thankful.   
  
“Come on,” Chris rolls his eyes and delivers a gentle slap to Darren’s ass. “Let’s get pizza, I’m starving.”  
  
“Awesooome,” Darren says, long and drawn out in one of his silly voices as a grin spreads across his face. With one great flailing leap, a flurry of limbs, he lands on the couch, still smiling up at Chris.  
  
There he is, Chris thinks. He’s Darren again.  
  
Chris shuffles around on the side table for a moment and finds a local pizza menu, squinting at it as he flops onto the couch beside Darren. He casts a glance sideways after a moment, and snatches the glasses off Darren’s face, sliding them over his own ears.  
  
Darren blinks, grinning, and eyes him. “You gotta get new glasses, man.”  
  
Chris doesn’t take his eyes off the menu, now crisp and clear through the lenses. “I don’t need new glasses, I have yours.”  
  
Darren tips his head back, letting a squeaky laugh escape. Chris smiles to himself as Darren shifts and snuggles down into Chris’s side, head on his shoulder to read the menu through narrowed eyes.  
  
Two weeks, Chris thinks. Fourteen days isn’t that long, and then everything will go back to normal. And that’s it, Chris smiles to himself. This is normalcy now, for them. After two years spent wrapped around each other, this is home.  
  
Two weeks isn’t that long, but Chris couldn’t fight the feeling he’d be spending them homesick.


	6. Temporary Possession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter set during a (fictional) cast visit to the Australian Mardi Gras.

Sparks flew and cartwheeled across the horizon in blazing lines of pink and gold, and the music of the street, the rowdy chorus of the mostly inebriated masses, filtered up past their hotel window riding on a bass beat. Darren grinned eagerly down at the swarms of people through the thick glass, watching as the colours and glitter of their costumes expanded and contracted in waves under the neon streetlights.  
  
There was a joyful shrieking sound coming from the hallway outside their open door, and Darren cast a quick glance over his shoulder as the noise washed by the doorway. Two streaks of blue and purple flew past, mingled with blonde and brown hair. He scrunched his nose up in delight. From the noises that followed, he could only assume that Chord was presently being tackled to the ground by Dianne and Lea. Clearly, he and Chris weren’t the only ones with a few drinks in them already.  
  
Nervous with excitement, he chewed his bottom lip and rocked on his heels, eyeing the bathroom door again. Right on cue, the door swung open and Chris slid out of the small white marble room, his expression somewhere between bemused and exasperated. The girls’ giggles and shrieks continued down the hallway, and Chris shook his head fondly as he cast his old clothes on his suitcase, which was still perched on the end of his hotel bed.  
  
As Chris rummaged through his possessions, Darren raked his eyes over the new attire, silently constricting the muscles in his hips to try and ward off the heat spreading there. Chris’s pants were midnight black, silver-studded in two lines from hip to ankle, and looked a lot like someone had to sew them onto him. His shirt was more simple, a long-sleeve ribbed button-neck in gunmetal grey that clung to all the right angles of his chest, arms and shoulder blades. As he moved over the suitcase, Chris pushed his sleeves up absently, and Darren grinned at the buckled leather cuff and bangles on his wrists.  
  
“So, I don’t mean to alarm you,” Darren managed to get out, unable to take his eyes away from Chris’s pants. “But I think I’m pregnant.”  
  
Chris looked up, his brows angling in and lip curling in amusement. “Is that so?”  
  
Darren nodded, head tilting for emphasis.  
  
“Eyes up here, you perve,” Chris waved two fingers at his face, flicking the cap off his chapstick with his other hand.  
  
With a cheeky grin, Darren finally tore his eyes away and buried his hands in his pockets, shoulders drawn up to his ears. After a moment he realised Chris was staring back at him, almost studying him, and he quirked an eyebrow in question.  
  
“Not adding anything to that?” As he applied his chapstick, Chris waved a finger at Darren’s outfit.  
  
Darren looked down. Yes, his clothes were a little too casual, just his best pair of jeans and a black v-neck, but it was all he could really put together out of his suitcase that didn’t make him look like the total bum he actually was. Any suits he’d brought were worn and creased already from the interview circuit, and it wasn’t exactly the kind of night for suits. “I guess? I don’t really have much else.”  
  
With a fond eye-roll, Chris returned his attention to the suitcase, and after a few more minutes of rummaging he finally produced two belts. “Arms up,” he said to Darren as he wandered over, throwing one of the belts over his shoulder and unravelling the other.  
  
Darren obliged as Chris passed both arms around his waist, wrapping the thin red belt around the left side of Darren’s jeans and buckling it low on his opposite hip. Darren’s pelvis jerked with the movement as Chris tightened the buckle, and a sharp twinge of something nervous and delicious shot through him. _That would be the alcohol,_ Darren reminded himself.  
  
Oblivious and still focused on his task, Chris slipped the second belt, this one black with silver studs, off his shoulder. Darren tried very hard to be interested in the ceiling instead of the broad hands pressing against his hips, jerking him forward in sharp and rough movements as they adjusted the belts to overlap.  
  
“There,” Chris smiled as he stood back to admire his work. “Much better. Now you look like you’re actually going to this thing.”  
  
Darren looked down at his newly adorned hips, impressed. “Thanks, man,” he grinned. Two years and he was still in awe of the insane things Chris could do with random articles of clothing.  
  
“Not done yet,” Chris said airily as he darted back to his bag, fishing out what looked like a black pen.  
  
Darren let out a squeak of laughter in realisation. “Awesome!”  
  
Chris whistled at him, waving him over, and Darren skipped across the room excitedly to the beat of the bass pounding from the street below. Chris braced himself against Darren’s shoulder, trying not to laugh. “Alright, alright, Sandra Dee, stop bouncing or you’ll lose an eye.”  
  
Darren grinned broadly, but tried his best to stay still.  
  
After a few moments of awkward arms and elbows perched on Darren’s shoulders, Chris sighed. “This isn’t going to work.”  
  
Their height difference had become more and more exaggerated over the years, but was hardly ever a problem. Except, of course, in situations like this.  
  
“I told you to stop growing, dude, but did you listen?”  
  
“Shut up,” Chris said casually, pulling out their single hotel-room chair and sitting down. He adjusted his perch on the seat carefully, shifting back as far as he could, before finally looking up at his room-mate. “Alright, sit down.”  
  
Chuckling, Darren stepped up and lowered himself onto Chris’s lap, stilling himself quickly so Chris could finish his task. Their physical dynamic had shifted just under a year ago, and Darren remembered the moment he realised how much bigger than him Chris had become. His body had caught up with his height, and filled out fully into broad shoulders and biceps by the time he’d hit twenty-two. His hips were still narrow, still perfect for the kinds of jeans that Chris just about lived in, but Darren had been on top of him enough times to know by now that Chris could easily take his weight.  
  
The beat changed, and Darren realised he was staring directly into Chris’s eyes, bright blue and burning under the yellow hotel lamps. Chris’s hands felt cool on his face, long fingers braced against the bridge of his nose as the liquid swept slowly across his lids in careful movements, finishing up the second eye. “And you’re done,” Chris finished, capping the pen. “Don’t rub your eyes, don’t chop any onions.”  
  
Darren leaned back, propping his hands on Chris’s knees behind him to catch himself in the mirror. “Niiice.”  
  
“Um, D,” Chris said, his voice wavering a little. Darren glanced back quickly to see Chris’s eyes were closed.  
  
“Hips,” was all he said, his eyes still squeezed shut, and Darren took a moment to register that leaning back had pushed their hips flush together. Any movement he made was now just friction.  
  
“Oh! Sorry, man-”  
  
“Not complaining,” Chris lifted a single eyebrow, his face slipping into one of his patented sardonic expressions. “Just not a good idea in these pants.”  
  
Wearing his dirtiest grin, Darren shifted forward in one swift motion, grinding down hard. Chris jerked underneath him, gasping roughly. “Oh, you _bitch_.”  
  
Darren put both hands on Chris’s shoulders, planting a sloppy kiss against the side of his face as he stood. “Payback, baby.”  
  
Chris laughed breathlessly as he tried to recover, and swatted at Darren half-heartedly as he walked by. The ruckus from the hallway had dissipated, so when Naya stepped through their door, loud as ever, both of them jumped.  
  
“What’s up, bitches? You honeys start the party early in here, or what?” She glanced between them, grinning broadly. “We gots us some slammin' to do!”  
  
“It sounds absolutely mad out there,” Darren nodded to the window enthusiastically.  
  
“Oh hells yeah,” Naya confirmed, waving her beer in emphasis. “It’s fierce as hell on those streets, we’re heading down to catch some of that parade.”  
  
Chris nodded, looking over his shoulder, still not game to get up just yet.  
  
Darren grinned at his predicament, saying to Naya: “We’ll be down in five, if you guys want to meet in the lobby?”  
  
“Sounds good,” she winked at Chris. “See you in five!”  
  
As she disappeared out the door, Chris dragged himself from his seat, adjusting the waist of his pants. Darren rummaged quickly for his wallet and keycard, shoving them down into his back pocket as Chris came up behind him and readjusted the belts where they’d slipped.  
  
Darren stood still for a moment, letting Chris work, and grinned as the two arms behind him coiled around his waist and drew him in. “Just so you know,” Chris said into his ear. “You are officially mine for the night, lest some love-struck, show-choir loving mass of muscle tries to do off with either of us.”  
  
Unable to wipe the smile off his face, Darren pressed back into his best friend. “I approve of this plan,” he said in a low voice. “Does it involve making out?”  
  
He shivered involuntarily as he felt the tips of Chris’s fingers slide inside the rim of his jeans, pressing into his belly. “Play your cards right.”  
  
Darren tried to shift against Chris’s hands, nearly humming along with the buzz the alcohol had left in his ears at this point. He felt a pang of disappointment when the arms uncoiled, and Chris headed for the door.  
  
“What would I do without you?” Darren asked, eyeing him fondly.  
  
“Get laid,” Chris replied dryly. “Or get mauled by bears. Potentially both.”  
  
With a bark of laughter, Darren slid out into the hallway behind him, and closed the door.


	7. Undefined Aloud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter set during a (fictional) cast visit to the Australian Mardi Gras.

The night had blurred into dashes of colours, light and sound, and one moment bled into hours on the streets of Sydney. The parade was spectacular, bigger than it had been in years - or so the locals kept saying - and Chris was still floored by the incredible atmosphere and the endless stream of love from passing strangers.  
  
At some point they had all staggered into a party on Oxford, completely smashed and toasting to table-top dancers in glittering, sequinned minis and corsets - most of whom were men. Amused as he was by the drunken waves of laughter and merriment of the cast, Chris kept to the side walls of the club, happy to watch on and keep his drinking to a minimum. They’d managed to keep out of the line of camera flashes and video phones all night, thanks to both their costumes and the loving, understanding community crowds, but he really didn’t feel like pushing his luck.  
  
He sipped at the last of his Diet Coke, resting the glass on the side bar and grinning to himself as Heather joined two of the drag queens on the far table, grinding to the techno beat of some princess pop star remix. Lea was giggling uncontrollably into Amber’s shoulder while Naya and Dianna were attempting to get Mark to dance in the stilettos they’d just convinced him to put on. Chris smiled fondly - oh, the things Mark could be coaxed into while drunk. It wasn’t the first time, and certainly wouldn’t be the last.  
  
The disco ball caught a haze of aqua blue from the spotlights, and washed it across the room like it was going underwater. Beneath the smoke haze, Chris shifted and wrapped his arms around his chest, his gaze drifting lazily across the dance floor. So many glittering, spinning bodies, full of joy and freedom - it warmed his heart to know that this place was real, that this pure, undiluted celebration of _self_ existed here.   
  
He caught Darren’s eyes, and almost started. Halfway across the room, in a sea of limbs and skin, he still stood out like a beacon. A smile crept across Darren’s face, Chris could see it clearly under the sparks of white and blue, eyes big and bright and unwavering. Chris knew those eyes like a photograph burned into his memory. He wondered how long Darren had been watching him.  
  
Darren’s movements were so exaggerated while he was drunk, his body became liquid and shifted in emphasis with each turn and dodge of the people around him. He was by Chris’s side in moments, leaning into his shoulder. Chris waited for him to ask the obvious question, the one they always asked when Chris stopped drinking first. It was always, _you okay man? You alright?_  
  
Darren didn’t say anything.   
  
After minutes in silence, Chris glanced down at him, letting a tiny smile catch at the corner of his mouth. Darren had his eyes closed, his face pressed comically against Chris’s arm. He was very, very drunk - Darren only got quiet when he had this much to drink.   
  
Chris reached out, pushing random curls behind Darren’s ears carefully with long, practiced fingers. Darren hummed very softly in contentment and nuzzled deeper into his sleeve as the song changed over, and Chris couldn’t help but let his smile spread a little. The next time he glanced over, Darren’s eyes were wide open again, staring up at him wildly. There was something about the light catching in his stare, something Chris had seen a few times before on set, but Darren’s eyes seemed to actually hold the light hostage. They took it for themselves. Chris stared right back, unblinking.   
  
He felt heat on his chest like a bullet, and his breath punched out as both of Darren’s hands climbed his body with aching familiarity. It was slow and hard, both palms pressing into muscle, fingers and thumbs drawing long lines up his abdomen as Darren shifted in front of him. Chris hissed at the sting of heat that shot straight down his body to all the wrong places. “Darren, come on,” he managed to utter in a breaking voice. “You’re drunk. Enough.”  
  
Darren’s hands stopped, but he searched Chris’s face for a moment before leaning in and resting his head against Chris’s temple. His eyes fluttered closed in frustration, but Chris knew it was mostly at himself. “I’m sorry,” Darren said gently. “It’s just. Difficult, sometimes.”  
  
Chris shuddered at the vibration against him as Darren spoke. “What is?”  
  
“ _Not_ being like this, with you,” Darren managed to choke out, his voice strained and struggling. Chris could feel him fighting to pull back.   
  
Chris bit down on his own lip, eyes closed and willing himself back to sanity. The drinks he’d given in to earlier were still spinning around in his head, and he tried not to think about the fact that Darren was here, and pressed into him, and that he was nearly shaking from the ache of it. He tried not to think about the day they spent tasting each other’s skin and mapping their bodies and how they fit together. It was just a job. It was just work. It wasn’t supposed to be this.  
  
Chris’s hand came up and cupped the back of Darren’s neck, stroking his hairline with a thumb. As Darren tipped his head back, Chris caught his eyes and smiled knowingly. No, it wasn’t just work.   
  
He loved Darren. He loved him - violently, passionately and endlessly, and with every fibre in his being sometimes. And Darren knew. It was never a romantic love, it was never a brotherly kind of love either. Chris couldn’t put words to it, only the sensations. It was always aching, always burning slow and deep, and filling his chest to the point where he couldn’t find air. They could be holding hands like best friends or wrapped bodily around each other like lovers, it didn’t matter, it was all just ways of loving Darren.   
  
Darren breathed, his eyes drooping, mouth curving into an adoring smile as if he were reading Chris’s mind. He pressed in, his lips brushing Chris’s gently, eyes staring down long, dark lashes, asking permission. Chris breathed slow for a moment, and gave in with a tiny nod, his body shaking as Darren pressed him to the wall and kissed him hard.   
  
Chris lost time and gravity as the air closed in around them and the music fell away. He fought a moan as Darren’s hips shifted against his, lips finding Chris’s pulse and tracing his jaw. Chris’s hands scrambled for purchase on Darren’s back as the heady rush of it washed over him, and he slid down the wall a little as his knees buckled. He found Darren’s mouth again, fighting back with everything he could find, the taste and touch of him sending sparks down his spine.   
  
If there were another way to love Darren, he didn’t know it. Tomorrow they would be the usual best friends again, as they always were. Tomorrow they would wake up, probably entwined on one of their hotel beds having passed out still in their clothes, still tasting like each other. They’d hold hands at the airport, or sleep on each other’s shoulders on the plane. They would go back to work, and go back to being the other people they were in front of the camera, and they would love each other there, too.   
  
In the damp heat of the club they pressed into each other, and Chris cupped Darren’s face and pulled it away gently. He smiled at his friend softly and received an adoring grin in return as Darren pressed both hands into his hips, holding him up. “Sometimes, I think,” he uttered into Chris’s mouth. “I was made for you.”  
  
Chris shivered against him, his heart beating quick. “You were.”  
  
Gently, he lifted his mouth and pressed his lips to Darren’s forehead, closing his eyes and letting out a long, shaky breath.   
  
Chris curled his fingers through Darren’s hair, their bodies pressing tightly, fitting together perfectly as they had always done.  
  
This thing, this undefined ache, was everything - in his heart and bones, to the core of him. And in the deep, under the club lights and the dark smoke, it was the only thing that mattered.


	8. Associative Somnambulism

It happened every year. The downhill run, the second half of every season, everything backed up and slowed to an agonising crawl. Episodes were put on hiatus, fans cried out, and the crew battled frantically to get a big enough cushion between the snapping gate and the television screen.   
  
The days grew longer, and the hours trickled on, stuck in standby while the chaos of the script and screen were sorted. All they could do was sit back and wait, and be grateful for the blessed in-between moments, primed for sleep anywhere they could get it. With half the cast unconscious on sets and in trailers, the lot had become home away from home. Hotel McKinley, Chris had called it.  
  
He kept his humour, even through the longest of days - most of which had left him a boneless, lukewarm zygote of himself between takes, sagging from exhaustion but ever-smiling. How he managed to draw himself up and seamlessly become Kurt Hummel, even in his present state of semi-permanent walking coma, Darren would never know.   
  
They’d retired to Darren’s trailer after lunch, both clutching water bottles and revised script pages. Darren dragged open the flimsy trailer door with a grunt and staggered up the stairs, toeing off his shoes and beelining for the couch. Chris hovered for a moment in the doorway, peeling off his sunglasses and smiling slightly, gratefully, at the familiar surroundings. Clothes were strewn across the backs of chairs, papers lay in heaps everywhere, mostly mapped out in Darren’s bold handwriting. Song lyrics, music - Darren’s newest guitar propped in the corner. It was just another version of home.  
  
He shuffled in the door, letting it flap noisily closed behind him, and found a perch on the arm of the couch, knees drawn up to his chest. Darren had spread-eagled on his back across the three cushions, arms thrown above his head, and was presently letting his eyes roll back into his head in utter delight. Chris huffed out an amused breath - they’d been on their feet all day and most of the night with little reprieve. He was amazed they hadn’t both passed out at this point.   
  
But, as Lea would say, the show must go on. He rummaged through his script papers casually, scanning to find the revisions. Darren shifted, dropping his own script onto the floor, and eyed Chris for a moment. “You went over the revisions at lunch,” he said.   
  
Chris nodded without looking up. “Yes, yes, I just want to make sure-”  
  
Darren pulled a mocking face at him, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. Chris looked over just in time to catch it, and laughed breathily, closing his eyes in exasperation. He sighed, “Fine,” and made a show of putting the script down on the bench behind him.   
  
With the amount of adoration and worry that only Darren could fuse into one expression, he tilted his head and gazed at Chris, unblinking. Chris held his hands up in surrender, pressing his lips into a thin line, unwilling to argue the point.  
  
With one sock-clad foot, Darren playfully kicked at Chris’s knees with just enough force to send them the other direction and leave Chris tumbling down on top of him. Darren’s arms came up to catch him just in time as their bodies collided, and Chris let out a startled yelp as he was pulled up the couch. “What was that!?”  
  
“That,” Darren laughed, “was a very poorly executed plan.”  
  
“You don’t say?” Chris laughed, still gasping for the air that had been knocked out him. He moved to prop himself up on his arms and angle his way off of Darren and the couch, but jerked still when he found two constricting arms around him.   
  
After a moment of trying to wriggle out, he glanced at Darren questioningly, one eyebrow raised. Darren grinned back sleepily, eyes gleaming with mischief.   
  
Rolling his eyes, Chris gave in, too exhausted to fight. He shifted slowly, pressing into the backrest, and slid down to fit along the side of Darren’s body, head resting on his chest and arm draped bonelessly across his abdomen. Darren tried not to chuckle at the haphazard angles of Chris’s legs, bent at the knee and leaning awkwardly against the arm of the couch.  
  
There were a few moments of silence before Chris’s eyes drifted closed against his will, and he uttered into Darren’s shirt. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Maybe,” Darren said casually, snatching his book and glasses from the side-table with an outstretched arm.  
  
“You’re evil,” Chris mumbled.  
  
“Shut up and sleep,” Darren said lightly, pushing his glasses over his ears and flipping his paperback open to the bookmark.  
  
Chris made a noise, melodic but completely incoherent, against Darren’s ribs as he snuggled in deep, hooking his left leg under Darren’s propped knee.   
  
Smiling, Darren let Chris get comfortable, and it wasn’t long before he was rumbling softly with the rise and fall of his breathing. Trying not to shift too much, Darren lowered his book and watched Chris’s face as he slept, drawn in long and peaceful lines. Gently, he passed the book between his two hands and used his free hand to brush along Chris’s hairline, straightening a long curl of hair that was pinned flat. His sleep-deprived brain conjured an old Disney image, the little mermaid on a beach with Prince Eric. He barely caught his laughter in time.  
  
Chris slept on, oblivious.   
  
The minutes drifted into hours, and each time he finished a chapter Darren checked Chris’s face again, watched the rise and fall of his body and the lines of his eyelashes to see if he was dreaming. He’d heard Chris talk about sleepwalking, heard Amber and Dianna’s stories, but every time they’d passed out together on a couch or a hotel bed, Chris had slept through the night.  
  
Realistically he figured it was just luck, but something in Darren’s chest warmed at the crazy idea that it was his holding on to Chris at night that gave him peace.  
  
“We’ve got rehearsal,” Chris said suddenly, and Darren jerked slightly in surprise.   
  
He blinked, confused for a moment, before eyeing Chris carefully. His eyes were still closed, his chest kept the same rhythm. He was still asleep.   
  
_Right. So much for that theory._  
  
“No we don’t,” Darren answered softly, craning his neck forward. “Go back to sleep.”  
  
When no reply came, Darren couldn’t help but smile to himself, and brushed an arm down Chris’s side affectionately, kissing his forehead. He dropped his head back against the arm of the couch, closing his eyes and rubbing them gently under his glasses. The door rattled in the breeze, but Darren’s gaze shot over to it immediately.   
  
_Not yet_ , he begged silently. _Give him a few more hours._  
  
The door stayed closed.  
  
With a soft smile, he dropped his book down on the table behind his head, peeling off his glasses and resting them on the paperback. He curled an arm around Chris’s shoulders protectively, trying not to squeeze too hard, and his head lolled to the side as the weariness and the warmth of Chris’s body finally took a hold of him, pulling him down into the hazy place between sleeping and awake.  
  
It felt a lot like falling, but the sensation barely registered before he drifted even further down, down, into dreamless sleep.   
  
_Like Alice down a rabbit hole_ , he thought, and then there was only the dark.


	9. Welcome Home

There was a crash and a yelping sound somewhere past the door, and Darren's head jerked up under the spray of water pummelling his scalp. His eyes narrowed for a moment. "Chris?"  
  
"I'm fine!"   
  
Darren breathed out a laugh at the strained voice yelling back, knowing full well Chris had probably tripped over another box.  
  
"So I figure since everything is still in boxes," Darren shouted over the hiss of the shower, listening to his voice echo off the bathroom tile jarringly. "We should probably stick with pizza or something 'cause ... I don't even know if I have dishes. I don't remember packing dishes..." his voice trailed off as he thought for a moment, and then nodded to himself and called out, "I'm pretty sure I _do not own_ dishes."  
  
He was sure he heard a laugh.  
  
"Why am I not surprised?" Chris replied dryly.  
  
Darren smiled to himself, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as the torrent rushed down his face in waves of blissful heat.  
  
"Pizza sounds fine," he heard Chris's voice getting closer, but still muffled by the door, "we should probably figure out a decent local, anyway."  
  
His eyes unfixing and wandering over the tiled wall as he cleaned himself, Darren nodded in agreement, his brain not quite registering that Chris couldn't see him.  
  
"You're nodding, aren't you?"  
  
Darren paused, and squinted at the door. "Yeah," he called back guiltily, chuckling.  
  
"I keep trying to figure out how to unpack," Chris said, and then suddenly his voice was crystal clear and louder than ever as the door swept open and he moved to the basin. "Every time I peel back that tape I end up covered in this stuff."  
  
He rolled the tap on, rubbing his hands together furiously under the water to dislodge the sticky tape glue smeared across his palm.  
  
Darren yelped, and Chris heard the violent squeak of skin sliding against tile behind him.  
  
"FUCK, Chris, I am _in the shower_ ," Darren cussed, his voice wavering violently.  
  
Chris narrowed his eyes, wheeling around and leaning against the bench. "What?"  
  
Darren made a panicked face at him from behind the glass.  
  
"Oh, are we pretending like I haven't seen you naked a thousand times?" Chris asked, irritated. "We shared a trailer for over a year for crying out loud."  
  
“Chriiiis,” Darren warned in a low, uneven voice. “The _fucking water._ "  
  
Chris blinked, confused. It took a second for the meaning to click, and his eyes went wide before he spun back to the sink and furiously turned off the bathroom tap. " _Oooh_ , my god, I'm so sorry!"  
  
Darren was hunched over, and the frosting on the glass obscured his face.  
  
Chris leaned sideways, wincing slightly. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Uhuh," Darren whimpered. "Yes."  
  
Trying to stop himself from laughing, Chris pressed his lips together tightly. "Yes as in no?" he ventured.  
  
"Uhuh," Darren uttered very quietly.  
  
Chris couldn't help it, it was too much, and the laughter took him completely as he doubled over.   
  
"Oh, that's just great, yeah," Darren managed in a strained voice. "Laugh it up. I'm just gonna stand here and wait for my balls to defrost, no big deal."  
  
The squeak that came out of Chris at that moment made Darren jolt, and he couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face despite it all. He shook his head fondly, watching his roommate's shoulders shake uncontrollably as a varying number of high-pitched noises echoed through the room.  
  
“Are you honestly _crying_ right now?” Darren asked incredulously.  
  
Chris shook his head weakly, his eyes screwed tightly shut. He couldn’t actually speak anymore, and the noises had trailed off to the point where his laughter was both silent and visible in his entire frame. The head shake turned into a nod as he pressed both his hands to his face and bent over further, trying desperately to stop.  
  
“You know what?” Darren said, his own voice shaking with laughter. “Just for that, you’re not getting any of my pizza.”  
  
Chris’s noises came back as he started to come down, hands quivering from the rush of blood to his head. “Ohhhh,” he managed shakily. “That was so worth it.”  
  
Darren tried his best to glare, but mostly failed as Chris lifted himself away from the bench.  
  
“I hope you trip over a box and break your funny bone,” Darren grumbled.  
  
Still unable to keep the grin off his face, Chris flicked a wet hand at the shower glass teasingly as he turned to leave.  
  
“Yeah you better run,” Darren called after him as he disappeared out the door.  
  
He caught Chris’s chuckle as the door swung shut, and shook his head fondly, reaching for the taps.  
  
As he clambered out of the shower and wrapped himself in a towel, he felt the warm rush of a grin spread across his face. If there was one thing he knew for sure about living with Chris Colfer, it certainly wasn’t going to be dull.


	10. Falling Awake

The drive home had become a quiet ritual, the swooping streets of a familiar scene set down forever now in his subconscious. He didn’t even know the day he’d stopped wondering whether it was the second or third street on the left, or if he had to turn before or after that lopsided tree with winter-barren branches like the gnarled hands of a cartoon witch. It became as easy as breathing, and barely passed his conscious thoughts. His body knew without him, this way leads home.  
  
The lift in their building was bright and cheery, gold like the sun on a summer afternoon in violent contrast to the icy grey of the streets outside. Chris played with his phone for a moment, swatting absently at the button for the tenth floor, and shuffled out again once the lift lurched to a halt.  
  
He’d started pushing through their front door bodily to counteract the weight of it from the pressure of door branch. Chris reminded himself for the eightieth time to get it fixed, and let the door swing closed in his wake with a dull _ker-thunk_.  
  
He threw his keys onto the lamp table, and as always nearly tripped over the ridiculous squishy cube Darren had left by the doorway. _Note to self,_ he thought, _must destroy evil deathcube without Darren noticing._  
  
“You home?” he called, flicking through the small pack of mail in his hand.  
  
The room buzzed with the low hum that only silence left, and after a moment Chris looked up, confused. Darren should have been back from San Francisco by now, he was only meant to be gone three days.  
  
Swinging his bag off his shoulder and dropping it against the wall, Chris discarded the mail carelessly on a table top and wandered into their apartment, peering around the corner to the hall. “Darren?”  
  
“Yeb!” there was a distance voice calling back from somewhere around Darren’s bedroom, and the sound of shuffling feet and instrument cases followed.  
  
Chris blinked, amused, wondering if he’d heard right. “Yeb?” he mouthed to himself quietly.  
  
Darren appeared in the doorframe in a flurry of limbs, his hoodie half-on and caught around the handle of his guitar case as he all but fell into the hall. “I’b ruddig late,” he said in a strange and gravelly voice.  
  
Watching his roommate scurry about frantically, Chris couldn’t help the unsure and amused expression that flickered across his face. His brow dropped as Darren staggered around, shoving hands into his pockets before he dug around in the couch cushions. “Hab you seen my phode?”  
  
“Darren,” Chris said slowly. “Why do you sound like somebody broke your nose?”  
  
“Whad?” Darren looked up, confused. His face was pale, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Id’s nothig, I’b ruddig lade. Hab you seen my cell?”  
  
“Haven’t seen it,” Chris said lightly, wandering down the hall to Darren’s bedroom without a backwards glance. He gathered the first blanket he saw and two pillows before he crossed to his own room, snatching his giant Nintendo-themed fleece blanket off the pile of clothes on the floor.  
  
He heard Darren make a frustrated, wet noise from the living room, and shook his head quietly with a laugh.  
  
“Argh,” Darren growled, not noticing his roommate had returned and was arranging pillows at one end of the couch. “Stubid fucking phode!”  
  
“Alright, alright,” Chris said soothingly, untangling Darren from his guitar case and carrying it across the room.  
  
“Whad - whad - whad are you doig?” Darren asked, glancing between Chris and the bedding he’d left on the couch.  
  
“I,” Chris replied pointedly, resting the guitar against the wall, “am not doing anything. You, on the other hand, are staying home tonight.”  
  
“I can’t I hab rehearsal,” Darren answered quickly, followed by an ear-shattering round of coughing.   
  
Chris winced as he wandered back over.  
  
“I can _barely_ understand you you’re so sick,” he reached out a hand and pressed it against Darren’s forehead, sweeping back a curtain of curls. “I take that back, you’re not just sick, you’re _dying_. God, Darren, just - sit.”  
  
Despite Darren’s weak attempt at a physical protest, Chris managed to force him down onto the couch, one arm still out of his hoodie. Darren’s nose made a tiny whistling noise as he huffed out a sigh. “I’b nnnndot sick.”  
  
Chris’s brow shot up. He uncurled the bunched-up hoodie and lifted Darren’s free arm, guiding it into the sleeve. “Really?”  
  
“They’re exbecting mbe at eight,” Darren tried to get up, but a hand on his shoulder shoved him back down onto the couch swiftly.   
  
“I’ll call and cancel, they’ll understand,” Chris insisted. “Now lie down.”  
  
“I’m ndot!” Darren argued again. “I dever ged sick.”  
  
“Uhuh,” Chris said placatingly, smacking the pillows a few times and gathering a blanket. “Okay, if you’re not sick - repeat after me,” he leaned in, focusing on Darren intently. “I-“  
  
“I,” Darren repeated.  
  
“Am,”  
  
“Amb,”  
  
“Numb.”  
  
“Dumb.”  
  
“Yes, yes you are, now lie down and shut up,” Chris said lightly, gripping Darren’s shoulders and guiding him back down onto the couch.  
  
“You tricked mbe!” Darren laughed, and gave in as he settled into the pillows Chris had set up.  
  
“It’s not hard to do,” Chris insisted. “If you look really close, I’m sure gullible is written on the ceiling.”  
  
Darren glanced up before he could stop himself, and Chris cackled.   
  
“Bide me,” Darren muttered with a smile, his cheeks flushing.  
  
“You know if you weren’t so sick, I would, just to spite you,” Chris said dryly, draping a blanket across him.   
  
Darren laughed again, but it quickly dissolved into a marathon of barking coughs. Flinching back, Chris rummaged around the couch under Darren’s legs and produced his cell.  
  
“How,” (another cough), “how do you do thad?”  
  
“Hmm?” Chris asked without looking up from the phone as he dialled. “I don’t know, it’s like a gift. I can’t find anything of mine to save my life, but the second _you_ lose something I seem to know where it is. It’s like a really, really cruel nerd curse.”  
  
“Those are the best kind,” Darren replied sleepily, his voice a little clearer.  
  
Chris lifted the phone to his ear as it started ringing. “You only say that because you benefit.”  
  
Darren grinned sleepily to himself, nodding.  
  
“Jamie? Hi, it’s Chris,” he shifted on his feet, kicking Darren’s knees lightly and pointing a warning finger at him to pre-empt any objections. “Yeah. Yeah. Darren has the plague. Uhuh,” Chris laughed. “I will. Thanks. Bye.”  
  
Darren glared, but Chris could see the weary gratitude underneath it. “Whad did she say?”  
  
Chris smiled and slid the phone onto a side table. “To rest. Or she’ll kill you.” He pulled his own phone out and started punching out a text message.  
  
“Souds aboud right,” Darren snuffled, his voice dropping back down to low and cracked tones.  
  
After he pocketed his cell again, Chris wandered to the TV unit and pulled out a box set, flicking open the case quickly and loading the DVD player.  
  
Darren watched with a lazy smile as the tv flickered to life, and the bright cartoon menu of _Avatar: The Last Airbender_ lit up the screen. He caught himself in a thought, and narrowed his eyes. “You’re nod busy tonide?”  
  
Chris shook his head and kicked off his shoes, padding back over to the couch and settling on the ground with the second blanket. “No, you’re stuck with me.”  
  
He knew Chris couldn’t see the grin that spread across his face, but he had a feeling he already knew it was there.  
  
“Did you eat?” Chris stopped still to ask.  
  
“Yeah,” Darren said. “Od the way hobe.”  
  
Nodding to himself, Chris resumed his settling-in and leaned back against the base of the couch, coiling the blanket around himself. Darren watched the back of his head with a fond smile as Chris found the remote and pressed play.   
  
Lost in the bright familiarity of fantasy and far-away worlds, they fell silent and the hours ticked on. Darren had rolled onto his side and let his arm fall over the edge of the couch, draped over Chris’s shoulder, and Chris had shifted into it over time - now using it as a pillow as his head lolled to the side.   
  
He didn’t feel the weight of the arm across his chest, it was a comfort - like the blanket - something that held him tight and kept him warm. After awhile he heard the tiny whistle and rumble that meant Darren’s breathing had evened out, and he’d drifted off to sleep. Chris smiled and closed his eyes at the sound, only twitching slightly when he felt the jarring buzz of his phone in his pocket.   
  
Carefully, he shifted and retreived it, flicking his thumb over the screen to read the message reply.  
  
 _Sorry you couldn’t make it! We missed you. Next time?_  
  
He smiled to himself and shot back a quick ‘definitely’ in reply, pocketing the phone again and burying his face in the fabric of Darren’s sleeve as he hugged the arm to his chest.  
  
He felt movement, and suddenly he was being held a little tighter.   
  
Chris smiled. “You awake?” he asked gently.  
  
“No,” came the tiny, gravelly reply.  
  
Chris laughed and closed his eyes.   
  
“Me neither.”


	11. If It Kills Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part of the story inspired by the incomparable Hugh Laurie & Stephen Fry, and their relationship.

There was a low hum for a moment when he flicked the switch, and the space was flooded with a pale wash of light. Darren glanced around their living room, setting down his guitar and peeling off his flannel to throw on the couch as usual.  
  
There was no noise, just the whine of silence pressing in, and he kicked his shoes off carelessly as he wandered to the hall. Chris’s door was open, and there was no light on.  
  
Darren swallowed, rocking back on his feet and pressing both palms to the back of his neck in resignation. He wheeled around and headed for the kitchen in silence, shuffling and randomly kicking at softer furniture on his way. The fridge was next to empty - which came as little surprise. He’d been working through the week and hadn’t had the time to buy anything. And Chris?  
  
Chris was gone.  
  
He pilfered one of the cans of Diet Coke from the door and cracked it open messily, letting the liquid fizzle and spray down his hand as he slurped at the top of the can.  
  
It was somewhere past midnight when he looked up at the clock, but it took him another two glances to actually read the time. 12:32. He rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, trying to wipe the other on his shirt without dropping the can as he wandered back into the living room.  
  
Gracelessly, he plonked the can down on a lamp table and dug around in his pocket for his phone, swiping his fingers across the keypad hesitantly and flinching at the readout. Still nothing.  
  
He dropped it onto the lamp table and collapsed sideways onto the couch, burying his face in one of the giant back cushions and coiling his body tight. Arms wrapped around his knees, he rubbed his face against the fabric and closed his eyes tight, willing his brain to stop screaming the same thing it’d been screaming for the last week.  
  
His phone lay still, upside down and mockingly silent.  
  
The minutes ticked on, and he couldn’t bring himself to move. The day had been absurdly long, and hard, and there was nothing for him to really get up for at this point besides food. On cue his stomach grumbled absently, and he glared at it for a moment before his frustrated gaze fell back on his cell.  
  
Somewhere between the same screaming litany going on in the back of his head and the pangs from his aching stomach, he fell asleep. In the cotton-wool fade into unconsciousness he tumbled down, and down further still to a world where someone kept asking him to play an untuned guitar. He tuned it, and played, and the jarring, twangy sound hurt his ears. He tuned it again, and again, but it never held more than a moment. He apologised. He said it wouldn’t hold the tune. And nobody believed him.  
  
The guitar out of mind, his dream changed and he found himself inside a lift. He knew it was familiar, but the buttons were strange. He stared for a moment.  
  
Behind him a man in a blue shirt asked him to hurry up. Darren apologised, and counted the buttons. “Late,” he said to the man. “He’s very late.”  
  
“If he didn’t say he was going,” the man replied, “how can he be late in coming home?”  
  
Darren realised what was wrong with the buttons.  
  
“There’s no tenth floor.”  
  
 _“Darren?”_ the voice was far away, as if down a very long hall. He pressed his finger to the wall of the lift, the space between nine and eleven where there was simply nothing.  
  
 _“Darren?”_  
  
With a snort and a violent rush into consciousness, he peeled his face off the fabric of the couch and glanced around.  
  
Chris hovered over him, amusement shining in his eyes. “Wakey wakey.”  
  
Darren squinted at him. “Chris?” he mumbled.  
  
Chris smiled, and waved a cup of coffee under his nose. “Welcome to the land of the living. I think you drooled on the couch.”  
  
Darren blinked at him, then let his head loll to the side as he inspected the wet patch on the couch where his mouth had been. “Hnnh.”  
  
Shifting around to sit alongside him, Chris hooked a foot around the leg of their coffee table and pulled it closer. Darren caught the scent of a hot breakfast, and his brow shot up immediately as his stomach made its desires abundantly clear.  
  
Chris chuckled at the sound.  
  
They ate their breakfast in silence, and Darren slowly felt his brain ticking into conscious thought. Remnants of his dream clung to him still, moments of it registering as strange and uncomfortable scenes behind his eyelids whenever he blinked. The image of an elevator made his chest hurt.  
  
“Where were you?” he asked as casually as he could manage around a mouthful.  
  
Chris smiled, and nudged his shoulder playfully. “I told you, Daniel and I were going to New York for the week. Broadway, Times Square, the galleries. It was amazing. Nice to do it outside of work, for once.”  
  
Darren inclined his head, not looking away from his food. “You didn’t tell me,” he said softly.  
  
Chris narrowed his eyes at him, still smiling. “Of course I told you, I…” his voice trailed off as his eyes flicked back and forth.  
  
Nodding to himself, Darren ate silently.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Chris said gently, sounding a little stunned. “I didn’t even-"  
  
“No, you didn’t. And you left your phone, I think.”  
  
Chris looked down, realisation creeping in as his mouth rounded silently in surprise.  
  
“It sounds like you had a great time, though,” Darren said genuinely, still not looking up. “As long as you’re happy, you know.”  
  
Chris watched him for a moment, thoughtful. There was an unfamiliar line to Darren’s shoulders, rigid and cold, and he didn’t like it. “You’re pissed,” he surmised.  
  
Darren shook his head, scowling. “No, god no,” he insisted. “Just - glad you’re okay and weren’t abducted by aliens or something.”  
  
Chris smiled sadly. “It honestly felt like three minutes, I didn’t even realise, I’m sorry.”  
  
“It was eight days,” Darren replied quickly.  
  
Chris swallowed hard. There was a pain in his chest at the mere notion of asking, but he knew he had to. “Is it … is it because of Daniel, or...?”  
  
Darren nearly choked on his food. “What? Fuck. No. God, no. You know I love Daniel, he’s awesome,” he swallowed and washed it down quickly with a mouthful of coffee before he continued. “You two are - you’re great together,” he said gently.  
  
Chris brushed his fingers along Darren’s shoulder carefully. “Then why can’t you even look at me right now?”  
  
Darren’s jaw shifted, and he put down his fork.  
  
Watching him carefully, Chris waited. When no answer came, he sighed. “I’m sorry, we got carried away. I should have come back earlier.”  
  
“Don’t,” Darren warned, his voice barely above a whisper.  
  
Chris eyed him, confused.  
  
Darren cleared his throat, but the tremble was still in his voice. “Don’t ever apologise for being happy, okay? It’s not about that, I just ..."  
  
Tilting his head, Chris waited for him to continue.  
  
“I know that someday, you’re not gonna come home,” Darren said slowly, carefully, like it was something he’d said many times before.  
  
Chris opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out.  
  
“I’m okay with that,” Darren continued, just as careful. “Because I will never be the thing that stands between you and what you want. But I need you - I _need_ you - to tell me, when you’re leaving, whether or not this is the time you’re not coming back.”  
  
Chris drew a shaky breath, uneasy at the fact that Darren was still staring forward. “I promise,” he said softly.  
  
Darren nodded minutely, and sipped at his coffee.  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going,” Chris offered gently, his hand entwined in the fabric of Darren’s shirt. “I don’t think, sometimes. I should’ve said.”  
  
“I was scared,” Darren admitted gently. “Eight days can feel like three minutes, but on the other side it looks a lot like forever.”  
  
“Sometimes I think you worry about me too much,” Chris joked softly.  
  
“Sometimes,” Darren looked up at him, finally, and Chris caught a flash of something bright in his eyes. “Sometimes, I think you don’t understand just how much I love you.”  
  
Chris’s breath caught, and he found he couldn’t look away. Darren stared at him, unblinking, his expression sad and lingering in a way that only emphasised his words.  
  
Leaning in, Chris buried his face in Darren’s shirt at the neck, and screwed his eyes shut tight. He felt a long, strong arm coil around his shoulders and lips press gently to his temple, and his breath fell away from him slowly in a contented sigh.  
  
“You know,” he said as Darren sipped his coffee again. “That day you were talking about? Is never gonna come.”  
  
He felt the tremor as Darren swallowed his drink.  
  
“Since when are you the blind optimist in this family?”  
  
“Happened around the same time you became the bitter cynic,” Chris drawled.  
  
Darren laughed, and Chris smiled at the sensation against his skin.  
  
There was a pause as Darren set down his empty cup, and squeezed Chris a little tighter against him, resting his chin in his hair.  
  
“You called us a family,” Chris mumbled fondly.  
  
Darren smiled. “Well… yeah. That’s kinda what we are at this point.”  
  
“I know,” Chris replied.  
  
“I was just waiting for you to figure it out.”


	12. I and Love and You

Darren waited outside the door, hands pressed into his thighs, neck craning gently to peer inside. Chris was on his bed, on his side, facing away. Darren tried to read his expression, to see if he was sleeping, but he couldn’t quite catch it.   
  
In a flash, he overbalanced, and headbutted the door with a loud thud.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
“Stealthy,” Chris drawled.  
  
Darren winced at the dull monotone of his voice. He gently pushed the door open wider, and leaned against the arch of the doorway. “Hey.”  
  
Chris sighed. “Hey.”  
  
The silence hung on the air for a moment, and Darren watched the rise and fall of Chris’s body, his brow furrowing in sympathy.  
  
“He called you,” Chris surmised.  
  
Darren nodded and confirmed, “He called me.”  
  
Chris snorted a laugh under his breath.  
  
“You went to work anyway,” Darren said in mock-scolding tones.  
  
“Didn’t seem like I had a reason not to,” Chris said flatly.  
  
Darren wandered into the room, stepping over an old familiar blanket and a random blue shirt to sit on the edge of the bed. Chris bounced slightly as the mattress took Darren’s weight, but he didn’t move.  
  
Gently, Darren rested a hand on Chris’s leg in support.  
  
“I’m _fine_ ,” Chris said softly.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Then why are you acting like my dog just died?” Chris asked, agitated.  
  
“Hey, I could’ve been in here an hour ago with ice-cream and Star Wars. That’s how I do it,” Darren shrugged. “I tried space. I couldn’t stand it.”  
  
“So you gave up in favour of watching me through a crack in the door?”  
  
“Beats pacing,” Darren shot back, sliding up the bed and stretching out.  
  
“What on earth are you doing?”  
  
“Right now? I am building a rocket ship,” Darren answered mockingly, throwing an arm over his best friend’s waist and pulling him in.  
  
“Get off me,” Chris grumbled half-heartedly.  
  
“Shut up,” Darren said. “It’s for your own good.”  
  
Chris huffed out a breath, burying his face in his pillow and wriggling for a moment before he gave up.   
  
“I hate you.”  
  
“No you don’t,” Darren said softly, playing with a piece of Chris’s hair between the fingers of his free hand.  
  
“I wish I was still at work,” Chris sighed. “Where I don’t have to deal with you.”  
  
“You mean where you don’t have to deal with Daniel.”   
  
Chris froze, and Darren felt the tension shoot through his body.   
  
“You broke up with someone - someone you once thought was the _love of your life_ \- just this morning,” Darren said slowly. “And then you turned around and went to work. And came home. And had dinner. Like it was just another day.”  
  
“It was,” Chris whispered.  
  
“No, it wasn’t,” Darren said. “Most people eat ice cream, you know. Most people cry.”  
  
“I don’t cry,” Chris said simply.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I just need to sleep,” Chris mumbled, waving a dismissive hand.   
  
Darren drew in a long breath and clutched him tigther, their bodies fitting together in the perfect angles just as they’d always done. There was a comfort to the curve of Chris’s spine against his chest, the way their legs intertwined at the ankle. It was home.  
  
“Darren?” Chris asked softly.  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“Did I…” he fought to get the waver out of his voice. “Did I screw this up?”  
  
Darren smiled sadly. “No, kid. You didn’t. Danny said it was amicable, that you both decided. I think if you..." - he searched for the right words - “I think if the same thought came to both of you at the same time, it means it was right.”  
  
Chris nodded slightly.   
  
“Do you feel like you made a mistake?”  
  
Shuddering slightly, Chris pressed back against him. “Sometimes. Mabye." He let out a frustrated sigh. "I don’t know what I’m doing.”  
  
“Mmm,” Darren nodded. “Sadly, none of us do.”  
  
Chris swallowed audibly.   
  
“Think of it this way,” Darren offered. “If you imagine the moment in your life when all your dreams come true. And you’re on that stage, and you look down into the pit,”   
  
Chris tilted his head back, listening intently.  
  
“Who do you want to be looking up at you?”  
  
They stilled for a moment as Chris thought it over.   
  
“If it’s him,” Darren said hesitantly. “Go after him.”  
  
After a beat, Chris shifted suddenly in his arms, and in an awkward tangle of limbs was wrapped around Darren’s torso tightly. “No,” he said, voice muffled by the fabric of Darren’s shirt. “It’s not.”  
  
Darren laughed breathily, and let his arms rest on Chris’s back. Something strange arm warm rushed through his chest. He wondered absently if it was relief.  
  
“Now can I get the Star Wars and the ice-cream?”  
  
“Shut up,” Chris shot back. “And don’t move I’m comfortable.”  
  
Darren smiled, and kissed the top of his head lightly. “No crying, then?”  
  
“I don’t _cry_ ,” Chris grumbled.  
  
Darren grinned, enjoying the teasing.  
  
“I asked him,” Chris tilted his head to the side, so he could speak without a mouthful of Darren’s shirt. “If he could bring it down to three words. What we were. Just three words.”  
  
Darren felt his heart quicken unexpectedly. He breathed. “What did he say?”  
  
“He said: _not easy anymore_ ,” Chris all but whispered.  
  
“And what did you say?”  
  
“I didn’t. I don’t even know why I asked, I just assumed I was having a Darren moment.”  
  
“Oh, thanks,” Darren scowled, smiling.  
  
“Either way, I got my answer,” Chris said softly, his voice resigned and lighter than before. “The words made sense. He was right.”  
  
“At least you both feel that way,” Darren replied.  
  
“Mmm,” Chris agreed.  
  
Darren asked before he could stop himself, “What words did you want to hear?”  
  
“You know, I have _no_ idea,” Chris said with a laugh. “I don’t even know where it came from. Three words is just … too small for some things.”  
  
Darren didn’t want to say how much he disagreed. _Three words can be everything._  
  
Chris sighed and buried his face in Darren’s shirt again, snuggling in tighter for warmth.  
  
“You don’t think you can bring _us_ down to three words?” Darren asked absently.  
  
Chris smiled, hearing Darren’s heartbeat thundering against his ear.  
  
“I said three words is too small for _some_ things,” Chris answered softly.  
  
“What does that mean?” Darren asked, confused.  
  
“That means,” Chris said, and closed his eyes.   
  
“We never needed words.”


	13. Only You

Chris snuffled and jolted out of his peaceful sleep at the loud crash of what could only be a guitar hitting something. He blinked at the wall and narrowed his eyes sleepily, mouth hanging open, wondering if he’d imagined the sound or actually heard it.   
  
The string of loud cussing that followed soon after basically confirmed he wasn’t dreaming.  
  
He slapped a flat palm on the wall three times when the music started anew, and rolled over, silently praying he could get back to sleep.  
  
The melody barely paused before it picked up again, and Chris groaned into his pillow.  
  
“Seriously?” he called out, hoping Darren heard.  
  
The song kept playing.  
  
Chris lay still, listening and glaring across his bedroom. Occasionaly a strange clatter would halt the music, and illicit several choice swear words before the plucking of strings carried on.  
  
And there was that clatter, again.  
  
Driven by maddening curiosity and the desire to get back to sleep sometime in the near future, Chris hauled himself awkwardly up off the bed and scooped up a blanket, wobbling for a moment before he made it to his bedroom door.  
  
He stumbled out into the living room, rubbing his eyes against the violent glare of the overhead light. “What are you doing? It’s nearly three in the morning.”  
  
The music stopped short as Darren smacked a flat palm over the strings, and the room echoed with another jarring clatter of metal on wood. Wincing, he glanced over at his roommate. “Shit. Chris, sorry, I just - I had to get this song down.”  
  
Expressionless, Chris watched while Darren frantically scribbled on a piece of paper to the tune of a random tapping sound. _What the hell was that?_  
  
It took a moment for Chris’s eyes to focus on the source of the noise, but when they did his mouth fell open a little. Clamped onto Darren’s wrist was what appeared to be a set of handcuffs.  
  
“Did I miss something,” Chris said around a yawn as he shuffled across the room and collapsed onto the couch beside him. “Or did you get arrested at some point?”  
  
“Huh?” Darren glanced up a second later, distracted. “What? No.”  
  
Chris eyed him as he plucked at the strings for a few moments and then went back to frantic scribbling, all the while the dangling cuff still smacked harshly on random surfaces.  
  
“Darren,”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“ _Focus._ Handcuffs.”  
  
Darren waved a dismissive hand, cuff boucning around on comically on the chain as he did so. “It’s nothing. Joey’s fault.”  
  
Chris nodded. Joey had stayed with them for the last three days and flew back only a handful of hours ago, but that didn’t explain why Darren had handcuffs on his wrist.  
  
“Could you vague that up for me a little?” Chris drawled. “Not a hundred percent awake yet.”  
  
Darren stopped scribbling and shifted on the couch, moving his hands back to the guitar. “Just a stupid bet, I figured I could get out of them without keys.”  
  
Chris squinted.   
  
“That’s all.” Darren said simply.  
  
Chris deadpanned. “Darren?”  
  
“Yeah Chris.”  
  
“Where are the keys?”  
  
“Joey has them,” Darren shrugged, playing a few chords and humming along.  
  
“Uhuh. Okay. Your good friend Joey,” Chris clarified. “Who is in Chicago right now.”   
  
“The one and the same,” Darren confirmed.  
  
Chris shifted in his seat, ignoring the blanket that fell from his shoulders. He thought for a moment, and flinched as the metal cuff hit the guitar again in an irritating uneven beat. Mid-verse, Darren stopped and grabbed for the pen, scribbling frantically in his usual illegeble script.  
  
“Alright - I’m just gonna,” Chris gestured casually, “throw this out there, but isn’t it a little difficult to play the guitar, and go about your - you know - career and life in general while wearing handcuffs that you apparently can’t get out of and don’t have keys to?”  
  
Darren shrugged again, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nearly drawing on his face with the pen in his hand.  
  
Chris raised his brow expectantly.   
  
“I can get out of them,” Darren insisted.  
  
“So why are you still _wearing them_?” Chris shot back.  
  
“Busy,” was all Darren said, dropping the pen again and swiping his fingers over the strings as he mumbled lyrics to himself.  
  
Chris sighed and, before he could stop himself, reached out for the hanging cuff. Darren barely had time to blink before Chris managed to pull the cuff over and clamp it down firmly on his own wrist, tight but not tight enough to hurt.  
  
Darren’s mouth fell open as he stared at their hands. “Wh- what - what are you doing?”  
  
“Now you have _incentive_ ,” Chris said dryly.  
  
Still stunned and stumbling over his words, Darren shifted the guitar off his lap with his other hand, dropping the pen in the process. “I - you - but -”  
  
“But nothing. I have an audition for that movie part in six hours and you have a song to finish,” Chris insisted as he shifted around, pulling his blanket back up awkwardly and snuggling down into the couch. He dropped his cuffed wrist over Darren’s thigh and leant against him, using the curve of his side as a pillow. “I’m going to sleep. You have work to do.”  
  
Darren huffed out an amused, disbelieving laugh. “You would make a _terrible_ motivational speaker,” he insisted, finding the metal pick he’d left on the table earlier and using his knee to reposition it in his free hand.  
  
“I don’t hear any lock picking going on,” Chris warned, eyes still closed.  
  
With a tiny smile, Darren looked over his shoulder and down at his roommate. Chris was curled up and snug against his body, face half-buried and hair tipping every which way at insane angles from the few hours he’d spent on his own pillow. Darren shook his head fondly, and interlaced the fingers of their cuffed hands, lining up the two locks next to each other.  
  
Chris smiled against the fabric of Darren’s shirt.  
  
After a few minutes ticked by with only the tiny clicking sounds of metal to mark time, Darren felt Chris shake slightly against him. It took a second before he realised Chris was laughing silently.  
  
“You quite comfortable there?” Darren asked, grinning and still working carefully on Chris’s lock.  
  
“I just,” Chris giggled. “I just realised I’m in handcuffs. It’s amusing me.”  
  
“You’re fucking insane, you know that?” Darren scolded.  
  
“No, just sleep deprived,” Chris sighed, rubbing his cheek against Darren’s ribs as he got comfortable again. “I wonder whose fault that is.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Darren muttered. “You knew what you were signing up for.”  
  
“That’s true,” Chris said sleepily.  
  
“Me, on the other hand,” Darren continued. “I did not see _Randomly Handcuffs Himself to People_ on your application.”  
  
“I don’t,” Chris countered, his voice lower than normal as he started drifting off.  
  
“Oh, you don’t?” Darren laughed.  
  
“Nope,” Chris mumbled. “Not people. Only you.”  
  
Darren paused as Chris’s voice trailed off, and his breathing slowed down to a soft rise and fall.   
  
Smiling, he shifted the pick up again, and with a tiny click the cuff released from Chris’s wrist. His smile widened. “Just call me Houdini,” he whispered.  
  
Chris snuffled and mumbled sleepily, “If you want to impress me, next time say _alohomora_.”  
  
Darren snorted, rocking with laughter as Chris curled his newly freed arm around his knee.  
  
“Deal,” Darren answered, and tilted his wrist up to start working on the other lock.  
  
Chris shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tigether around his shoulders.  
  
Distracted by his efforts, Darren didn’t feel the time trickling by slowly. Out of nowhere, he realised Chris was free and still slumped against him. “You going to back to bed?” Darren asked without looking up.  
  
There was no answer but a soft rumble.   
  
With a grin, he glanced over his shoulder and let a breathy laugh escape.  
  
Resuming his efforts, he finally managed to free his wrist and rubbed at it gently to try and smooth the red imprints from the metal. With a sneaky grin he stretched out an arm, trying not to tip too far and disturb Chris while he searched blindly for the missing pen.  
  
After a moment he felt it under his fingertips, and snatched it up, finding Chris’s hand and picking it up in his own gently. As softly as he could, he wrote in block letters down the skin, and dropped the pen back onto his notebook once he was finished.  
  
In the morning, after he’d uncoiled himself from the warm, sleeping figure of his roommate, Chris would stumble into the bathroom to get ready for his interview. He’d turn on the light, and stretch, and when he went to rub the sleep from his eyes, he’d catch sight of something dark scribbled on the back of his hand - and he’d laugh out loud when he read ALOHOMORA.


	14. Indefinite Accompaniment

With a sputter and hiss, the showerhead shook and exploded in a wave of icy water. Darren danced on his toes for a moment, waiting with one hand outstretched for the heat to come through. He scampered hurriedly into the spray when steam started to roll up from the tile, sliding the glass door closed with his foot.   
  
The scalding heat burned pink blotches into his back and shoulders, and he tipped his head back, groaning a little as the force of the water massaged his knotted muscles. His arms were aching, bone-sore and weary from the night’s set.   
  
Under the pummeling beat of the water, he closed his eyes and rocked slightly, letting it wash over his front and back and front again. He registered a noise in the distance, it sounded a lot like someone yelling his name, but with the beads of water dribbling down his ears he was sure he was hearing things.  
  
Then the bathroom door flew open and Chris tumbled through, barely able to keep upright. “Darren!” he shouted  
  
Darren blinked through the droplets beading on his eyelashes. “What? What? Are you okay?”  
  
Chris was grinning from ear to ear, his hand still gripping the doorknob violently. “I’m better than okay, I’m – _fuck_!”  
  
Darren jolted a little in surprise. Chris never swore. _Ever._ Whatever it was, it was freaking huge. “What? What! Tell me already, jesus.”  
  
“I got the part!” Chris shouted back over the roar of the water. “The movie – I got the part!”  
  
“Oh!” Darren rocked back on his heels for a moment, spluttering when the water slammed into his face.   
  
Chris laughed hysterically from the door, almost doubling over, hands coming up to cup his mouth as his laughter dissolved into wide-eyed wonderment. He stared off into the distance, eyes flicking back and forth excitedly as his mind tried to process the news he’d just received.  
  
Darren wiped his eyes, leaning out of the spray and pushing sodden locks back from his face. The frosting on the shower door came up to his waist, but above that was clear enough for him to see Chris’s expression through the pattern of drops clinging to the glass. Darren’s mouth curled at the side as he watched Chris lean against the bathroom bench, still awed and far away in his daydreams.   
  
“That’s just,” Darren nodded slightly, eyes flashing wide for a moment with the implications. “That’s amazing, man, wow. I mean, seriously. That’s huge! We need to celebrate!”  
  
Chris’s eyes darted up immediately. “What is it?”  
  
Darren stilled. “What’s what?”  
  
“What’s the matter?” Chris asked sternly, one eyebrow quirking. “You have that voice.”  
  
“What voice?”  
  
Chris sighed, leaning back on the bench with both hands either side. “Your oh-that’s-great, I’m-so-happy-for-you, but-secretly-I’m-miserable voice.”  
  
Darren narrowed his eyes and huffed out a laugh dismissively, deliberately paying more attention to the soap. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
Chris raised both eyebrows and tilted his head, silently insisting he wasn’t going to budge until he got an answer.   
  
After a moment in the quiet with only the rush of water echoing around the bathroom tile, Darren finally sighed dramatically and slumped his shoulders. “Fine, alright, I’m just – I’m happy for you. Jeez, man, it’s huge – you know? And I know you’ll be fucking amazing, you’re always amazing,” he waved an arm in emphasis. “I just – I don’t know.”  
  
Chris’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and his eyes fell to the tiles, unsure of what to say. He felt the anger burning in his throat, that Darren couldn’t just be happy for him. But at least he was being honest.  
  
“Alright,” Chris held up both hands in surrender. “I’ll just, I’ll go.”  
  
“Wait, Chris,” Darren urged, but Chris disappeared out the door and drew it closed behind him with a quiet _ker-thunk._  
  
“Fuck,” Darren hissed under his breath, hands scrambling over the taps and sliding open the glass door. He snatched up his towel and dragged it over himself in rapid movements before locating his clothes and awkwardly clambering into them on the way out the door.  
  
“Chris! Chris,” he found his roommate on the couch, slumped to the side with his elbow propped on the armrest and his chin on his palm. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that. I _wanted_ you to get the part, because, I mean, you’re going to rock this like nobody could, man. You’re gonna own it.”  
  
Chris didn’t look up, but mumbled into his palm; “You’re dripping on the carpet.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Darren darted down the hall to the bathroom, grabbing his towel and rubbing it violently over his sodden hair as he wandered back. “I guess,” he managed to get out beneath the layers of cloth. “Look, I’m just being stupid and fucking selfish here. That’s all.”  
  
Chris looked up, watching Darren as he balled the towel and launched it back down towards the bathroom, all the while pushing down the mess of wild, tangled curls clinging around his ears. He was still talking, still avoiding eye contact, the way Darren always did when he was trying to talk about how he really felt.   
  
“Because you’re going to be on site for this movie for what, four months? Six months? And then I’m on tour, and I – fuck, you know me, I just kinda close up when I have to deal with something I don’t want to deal with. I make jokes. Or I smile and carry on, you know?”  
  
Chris held up a hand, his eyes narrowed, and Darren took the cue to stop ranting. Confused, Chris leaned in a little. “What exactly don’t you want to deal with?”  
  
Darren heaved a deep sigh, pressing his eyes closed and covering them with his hands. “I just,” he gathered himself, trying to find the strength to say what he had to. “When we wrapped the show, and we moved in, it was like – this was right, you know? I had that weight in my gut for months, thinking we’d wrap and then I’d never see you again. But we moved here.”  
  
Chris dropped his shoulders and stared, exasperated. “After _everything_ we've been through, you still think I’m going to leave?”  
  
Darren blinked, caught out. He swallowed hard, felt his stomach drop, and realised that this is what deer must feel like when those headlights come into view.  
  
With a disbelieving laugh, Chris shook his head. After a moment of watching his damp roommate shift uncomfortably, he drew himself up off the couch and wandered over, placing both hands gently on either side of Darren’s head. “Oh my god, you are an _idiot_.”  
  
Darren blushed, eyes dropping to the floor, and Chris huffed out another laugh as he kissed his best friend’s temple and wrapped both arms tightly around his neck. “I’ve told you a hundred times I’m not going anywhere, not for good. And if I have to staple myself to you to prove my point, don’t think for a second that I won’t do it.”  
  
He could feel Darren laughing into his chest, and finally felt those arms coil around his waist. “I’m sorry, man, I just – I’m barely conscious and my mouth isn’t connected to my brain.”  
  
“Oh, I know,” Chris drawled, still smiling against Darren’s damp hair.   
  
“But I really do think this movie is going to be amazing. This role is perfect for you. This tour is going to kill me. And this…” Darren paused for a second, shifting a little. “Isn’t my shirt.”  
  
Chris laughed deeply at the non sequitur, leaning back to inspect the blue long-sleeve top Darren had pulled on in the bathroom. Wet patches painted the peacock blue a darker shade in strange patterns, like a Rorschach test. “No, it’s mine,” Chris confirmed. “Looks better on you, though.”  
  
Darren chuckled, and then eyed Chris’s face carefully. “Are we okay?”  
  
Chris rubbed a hand through the mess of Darren’s hair affectionately in reply, and received a grateful, relieved grin in return. “Leftover chinese and Les Mis for dinner?”  
  
Darren nodded eagerly as Chris turned towards the kitchen, and after a moment of simply standing still, decided to begin the hunt for the DVD. It was in the player, which didn’t surprise him at all.  
  
As he climbed onto the couch and got comfortable, Darren watched Chris unload an armful of takeout boxes onto the coffee table, noticing the little wet patches now blooming on his shirt. And wasn’t that just the story of their lives? The marks they left on each other, visible and invisible.   
  
“Do you remember what you said to me the night we wrapped Glee?” Darren asked suddenly, and Chris passed him a set of chopsticks as he considered the question.  
  
“If it was between the Disney duet and ‘oh my god this hangover, where the hell are my pants?’, then probably no.”  
  
Darren tipped his head back, laughing, as Chris settled in beside him and fished around the couch cushions for a remote. “No, no, before that – I was talking about how grateful I was, that Kurt and Blaine got their happy ending,”  
  
“Ah,” Chris nodded, finding the remote. “That’s right.”  
  
“And you said there are no happy endings,”  
  
Chris nodded. “Because nothing really ends.”  
  
Darren smiled softly at him, tipping his head to the side to rest against the backing cushion. “I think I know what you meant, now. You and me, we don’t end,”  
  
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Chris said matter-of-factly, bringing the TV to life and setting the DVD to play.  
  
As the music rose from the speakers, Darren hooked a random carton from the table and stretched his legs across Chris’s lap. Without a second thought, Chris propped his arms on Darren’s knees and dug his chopsticks around amidst something that resembled mushu pork.  
  
The next twelve months were going to be insane, of that much Darren was certain. And it had taken him too long to realise that this was home. That Chris was home. But even with the mayhem, the film sets and the tours and the benefits, they had time. They always had time.  
  
Because nothing really ends.


	15. Ten Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten moments from the year that Darren and Chris had to spend apart.

**1.**   
The day Darren left for the tour, he switched off all the appliances in the apartment, save the fridge, and turned out all the lights. Chris wouldn’t be back for another three weeks, there was little point in wasting the power.  
  
He sat for thirty-eight minutes on a squishy beanbag cube by the front door, watching the shadows move over the darkened living room. They’d be back again soon enough, he reassured himself.  
  
As he gathered his things to go, he paused in the doorway, and flicked the switch by the intercom. He left on the light in the entryway, something to shine under the door at night, something to show this was somebody’s home.   
  
  
**2.**  
 **EN:** So it’s been over a year now since you graduated from your _Glee_ role as Kurt Hummel, which is where you got your start, so to speak.  
 **CC:** Yes, yes. Definitely.  
  
 **EN:** Do you still keep in touch with your _Glee_ cast mates?  
 **CC:** I do, yes. We see each other all the time – we’re still like a family, so major holidays become this kind of mad mass of _Glee_ alums all crashing someone’s house. Usually Cory’s or Naya’s. Or mine. They’ll always be my family, my home away from home.  
  
 **EN:** Speaking of home, am I right in saying that your roommate is your former _Glee_ co-star and on-screen boyfriend, Darren Criss?  
 **CC:** Yes, yes. Darren and I co-habitat. Cohabi _tate_? _(laughs)_ We live together, either way.   
  
**EN:** There’s been a lot of speculation in the press and amongst the fans about your relationship, but the two of you aren’t actually together, is that right?  
 **CC:** No, no. We can’t stand each other. It’ll probably escalate to axe murder soon. _(laughs)_ No, it just turned out easier for both of us to share a living space, we move in the same circles, and we kind of got used to having each other around. So it works. Just because we kissed on a TV show for three years, doesn’t mean we do it in real life. It’s called acting.   
  
**EN:** Exactly, and from what we’ve seen the two of you are obviously very close friends.   
**CC:** Is that what he told you? Lies. Filthy lies. _(laughs)_  
  
 **EN:** But living together, you’d have that constant energy and music with each other, being right there, to feed off?  
 **CC:** Oh, definitely. It’s a great atmosphere when you’re both so involved in music. But it has its downsides. I still get woken up at three am by random guitar sounds and Christina Perri covers. I’ll start thumping on the wall, “Darren! Darren! It’s three am! Use your inside voice!”  
  
  
 **3.**  
Chris pressed the security buzzer and waited for the kick-snap of the door, sliding in and finding the elevator button blindly as he scanned over the pack of mail in his hand. The lift arrived with an all-familiar _ding!_ and he wandered inside without looking up, flicking the button for the tenth floor absently with his thumb.  
  
Ten stories up, he wandered into the hall and rummaged his pockets for a key, finally tearing his eyes away from the papers in his hand to get the right key into the door lock. The door was heavy, and he pushed into it with his shoulder, dropping his bags onto the floor by Darren’s shoes. The front hallway light was still on, but the rest of the apartment was painted with dappled ghosts made of fading daylight and shadow.   
  
He felt his chest constrict as the familiar scent of home washed over him, and couldn’t help but smile sadly at the empty living room. Darren’s favorite shirt, a blue one Chris had given him, was gone from its semi-permanent place on the arm of the couch.   
  
“Home sweet home,” Chris said softly to himself, and let the door swing shut.  
  
  
 **4.**  
Darren never paid attention to gossip magazines. Most of the time if he’d been in one, someone told him about it, and he’d shrug and say, _whatever, I’m just grateful to be doing what I’m doing._ It was true for his career on Glee, and it was true now.  
  
He’d been on tour for just over a month. Now half awake and soaking in the steam rising off his coffee somewhere outside of San Diego, he actually did a double take when he saw the glossy magazine perched on the edge of the table. The entire cover was a press picture from the last benefit they attended – he and Chris were smiling, arms around each other’s shoulders, bodies pressed together. _**Rad Bromance**_ , the cover read, _how same sex Hollywood friendships are redefining the modern love story._  
  
A smile bowed his mouth as he flipped to the article. Past snippets on pairings like Robert Downey Jr and Jude Law, Christopher Pine and Zachary Quinto, there was a picture of him and Chris together, huge and glossy, taking up the majority of the double-page spread. The title from the cover repeated itself again in huge block font, and as he skimmed over the article he sipped absently at his coffee.   
  
There was a block of text, a quote that stood apart from the main article. _“It doesn’t matter who’s gay, who’s straight. This isn’t about hearts, flowers, romance. We live in a world where two men can love each other, unconditionally, without having to put a label on it.”_  
  
His mobile phone trilled weakly, and he glanced at it. The text from Jamie, the tour manager, spelled out in huge angry capital letters that he was late and he’d better get his ass back there or else many, many bad things would happen to his person. Scooping up his coffee, Darren nodded to the passing waitress with a warm smile and a quiet thank you, until she’d passed.  
  
The moment she looked the other way, he rolled the magazine, stuffed it speedily into his back pocket, and scurried off into the street without so much as a backwards glance.  
  
  
 **5.**  
Chris’s phone buzzed against his leg, and he swiveled to dive a hand into his pocket. “I’m sorry, wow that’s embarrassing,” he apologized to the interviewer, who simply smiled and waved her hand to say she didn’t mind.  
  
“We haven’t started yet, no problems,” she said casually.  
  
He stared down at the text on his screen, covering his mouth with his hand as he laughed.   
  
Her brow shot up. “Boyfriend?”  
  
“Best friend,” he qualified. “He’s on tour.”  
  
She watched him carefully for a moment, her bangs sweeping over her rather severe Clark-Kent-esque glasses. They didn’t suit her, but Chris wasn’t going to say that.  
  
“You miss him,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.  
  
“Like a phantom limb,” Chris admitted. “I keep seeing things that’d make us both laugh, and turn around to see if he’s laughing but he’s not there. It’s rough.”  
  
She nodded. “I’m like that with my girlfriend,” she admitted gently. “She’s a travel writer.”  
  
Chris winced in sympathy.  
  
“Still,” she said, gathering herself up into a professional pose once again. “We sacrifice what we must to have the best of both worlds.”  
  
He nodded, smiling at her warmly. “That we do.”  
  
  
 **6.**  
It was May, and the interview circuit for the movie was finally pulling to a close. He’d found his way home again, dragging himself up to the tenth floor with little enthusiasm. It was just going to be another night in their empty apartment, now entirely too quiet and too cold for this time of year. Another night he didn’t particularly want to spend alone.  
  
He got as far as the couch before he realized something was strange, and stopped still to inspect the living room. The light was on, that much was different – but he didn’t exactly remember turning it off before he left.  
  
There it was. The blue shirt and a flannel draped over the arm of the sofa. He blinked at it, dumbfounded, before he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision and glanced up.   
  
They stared at each other for a moment, Darren grinning broadly from the kitchen doorway.   
  
“Y–you’re home?” Chris stammered, still stunned.  
  
“Your powers of observation just rock my world sometimes,” Darren teased.   
  
Chris’s face was still drawn in lines of confusion. “But the tour – you’re supposed to be halfway across the country?”  
  
“I flew back,” Darren inclined his head, burying his hands in his pockets. “Just for two days, then I’m flying out again and meeting up with the guys for the next gig.”  
  
Chris’s confusion melted into relief, and his body slumped as he closed the gap between them and buried his face in Darren’s shoulder. Darren’s arms encircled him immediately, a hand rubbing gently, comfortingly, at the back of his neck.   
  
Darren smiled and pressed a kiss into the side of Chris’s head. “I wasn’t about to miss your birthday, kid.”  
  
  
 **7.**  
Chris was convinced that at some point, Darren had just started mashing the keypad on his controller, because there’s no way he was ahead of him right now by skill alone. Not after the lead he’d had.  
  
Chris tilted his controller in his hand, watching his side of the screen carefully as the little green dinosaur came into view in the distance. There was an object on the road, and Chris was determined his little red-capped plumber was going to get it and knock Yoshi on his ass.  
  
“Oh, you did _not_ just pick up the blue shell,” Chris growled.  
  
Darren grinned, poking his tongue out the side of his mouth and scrunching his nose up in glee as he swayed on the couch. “Ha! Let’s see the back end of you now, Mario. I’ve got a present for ya.”  
  
  
 **8.**  
Two weeks after the tour ended, Darren was lying on the couch, strumming absently and awkwardly at his guitar when the phone rang. Chris snatched it from the dock as he passed by, side-stepping the open guitar case and perching on the edge of the couch.  
  
“Hello? Oh, hey Caroline, what’s up?”  
  
Darren playfully pushed at Chris’s thigh with his bare foot. “Say hi for me, say hi,” he said excitedly. He adored Chris’s agent, she was probably the sweetest woman on earth.  
  
Chris waved a hand at him and scowled, still listening carefully to whatever she was saying down the line. Darren smirked and picked at his guitar to the tune of _Sweet Caroline_. Chris glared.  
  
“Yeah, don’t mind that, it’s just Darren. But I can’t hear a thing, what did you say?”  
  
Darren shifted his hand down the fretboard and changed the harmony to _Telephone_. Chris stifled a laugh, swatting at Darren’s feet with his hand.   
  
Suddenly, Chris paled and his eyes grew wide. Darren stopped playing mid-intro, laying his hand across the strings to quiet them instantly.   
  
“Uh huh,” Chris managed to get out.  
  
Darren lifted his brow expectantly. After a few more minutes of silence and Chris growing paler by the second, Darren shifted himself up into a sitting position, swinging the guitar over the side of the couch and resting it in the velvet bed of the case.  
  
“Okay, I’ll… I’ll talk to you later, bye.” Chris pressed the ‘off’ button on the handset without shifting his gaze from the wall.   
  
Darren leaned in, trying to catch Chris’s attention. “What’s up, you okay?”  
  
Chris blinked, finally, and swallowed hard. “Do you own a tux?”  
  
“Do I look like I own a tux?” Darren laughed. “I can get one. Why?”  
  
Chris glanced over at him, trembling. “I think I need a date for something.”  
  
  
 **9.**   
“And the award goes to…”  
  
Chris felt the air go out of his lungs, felt the heat flush his face. Darren’s hand was wrapped around his under the table, squeezing gently.   
  
Amy smiled as the envelope tore open in her hands, and leaned down into the microphone, her beautiful beaded peach gown ruffling softly in the agonizing pause. “Chris Colfer.”  
  
Chris felt the floor go out from under him. He knew he was standing, he could feel Darren’s hands on his shoulders, feel the kiss he pressed to his lips quickly, reassuringly. He knew his own mouth was shaping out the words, _oh my god, oh my god_ , but he couldn’t hear it. Somehow he was moving towards the stage, and climbing the stairs, and Amy Adams was in front of him in all her sparkling, stunning beauty, wrapping him in a protective mother-hug. _Like a small woodland creature being cradled by a Disney Princess_ , he thought, and tried not to laugh at the visuals that conjured.  
  
The statuette was heavy in his hand, but shone brilliantly, flawlessly in the spotlights as he shuffled to the podium. “Oo-hhh,” he said shakily into the microphone, “we have lost cabin pressure. They need to fit this place with oxygen masks.”   
  
The crowd rumbled with laughter, and he stared down at the shining, gold creature in his hands. “This is – I am – I’ve forgotten how to use the English language. But I’ll give it my best shot, oh geez.” There was that rumble of laughter again as he rubbed his cheek, trying to will away the burning blush he felt.  
  
“Oh, I need to thank so many people. Jeremy Lider for letting me say his beautiful, beautiful words, Celia Waters for giving me the absolute honor and privilege of playing this amazing role,” he rattled off as many names as he could recall, as quickly as he could manage, his stomach flipping and tumbling. Still shell-shocked and numb, his brain ran out of names far too quickly, and in an instant he caught Darren’s face in the dark pit below the stage.   
  
Darren’s hands were pressed to his heart over the breast of his flawless Armani tux, eyes glistening in the dim light as he stared, breathlessly, up at the podium. Chris swallowed, and tilted the statue at him. “Most of all, god, more than anything, my best friend, my support and my heart, the other half of me, Darren. You got me here, you were with me through this amazing, crazy journey I cannot even thank you enough. There – there are no words. Thank you, so much.”  
  
Darren’s smile was luminous in the crowd as they rose to clap, and Chris followed Amy and the stagehand, music trickling down from the ceiling like rain in his wake.  
  
  
 **10.**  
One night, over sold out crowds of thousands of _Glee_ fans, the pillars of lights stretching high over the open-air stadium went dark, and the audience hushed in stunned silence. Through the black, the slowly growing hum of the whispering and wondering masses floated on the air.  
  
Moments stretched into minutes in the dark. From side stage, Darren reached out and took Chris’s hand. It was trembling.   
  
Fans shifted nervously in the pit. What was this now? The second generation of the cast had gone through their new set list, what was on the program. All the season’s songs had been done.   
  
With a crackling grace, the music poured from the speakers and shook the crowd back as they gasped, and clung to each other, and cried. This song wasn’t new, but each person standing in the darkened sea of bodies knew the words by heart.  
  
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the announcer called out from his invisible vantage point, “your special guests for this evening.”  
  
The lights went up in shades of bronze and brown and gold, the Dalton Academy crest lit up in neon white behind them as Chris and Darren walked onto the stage.   
  
The crowd swayed and trembled as the sound washed over them in the warmth of the summer winds, and onstage the two of them sung out the words they’d said a thousand times, but never really stopped meaning. They finished their song to the roar of the audience, a deafening wall of sound.  
  
Darren leaned in, looping his arm around Chris’s waist gently and drawing him into a quick, sweet kiss, as Blaine would have done, once upon a time.  
  
Chris smiled broadly at him as they parted, and lifted their hands to the audience gratefully.   
  
It was here, Darren knew, that he belonged. It was the numbing, powerful surge of the endlessly loving fans, it was the throb of the music and the burn of the lights. It was wherever Chris was, whether on stage or ten stories off the streets of LA.   
  
It was home.


End file.
